


Young Renegades

by wittyy_name



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abundance of Neon Lights, Album Inspired, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Distant future, Drugs, Fluff, Futuristic Neon Dystopia, Gangs, High Technology, Inspired by Music, Last Young Renegades by All Time Low, M/M, Mutual Pining, Organized Crime, Sexual Content, Violence, two broken boys finding love in a hopeless place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23336650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittyy_name/pseuds/wittyy_name
Summary: This life isn’t the life Lance expected to have, but he makes do. Turns out, dropping out of the Garrison to join Allura’s rising gang was the best decision he ever made. As a Paladin, not only can he provide for his family, but he can also keep people safe and rid this city of The Empire’s influence.Everything is going great until Keith Kogane walks back into his life.Keith, his old sweetheart. Keith, with his beautiful violet eyes and sharp tongue. Keith, with his perpetual scowl and fuck-all attitude.Second chances are rare, and Lance isn’t about to let this one slip through his fingers.______________________A klance cyberpunk au based on theLast Young Renegadealbum by All Time Low
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 128
Kudos: 600





	1. Track 1: Last Young Renegade

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly wasn't planning on uploading this until later this year, but with everything going on in the world... with all the stress and anxiety surrounding the virus and our lifestyles getting turned upside down... Everyone deserves a place to escape. Reading has always been mine. I hope to give that small moment of reprieve to you <3
> 
> * * *
> 
> This series was inspired by the _Last Young Renegades_ album by All Time Low. Listening to this album gave me cyberpunk vibes. A gritty future with neon lights, clubs, and living for the night. Finding love and trying to hold onto any spark of happiness in a world where the future isn’t certain. 
> 
> Every chapter is based on a song from the album and gives a glimpse into the story.
> 
> Much like tracks on an album, they’re chronological, connected, and tell a story, but they don’t follow each other as closely as traditional chapters might. They’re made to feel connected, but disjointed. Each chapter is made to feel like a song, with its own theme and story arc. You’ll find repetition a common theme to build flow, imagery, and make each chapter feel more like a song. 
> 
> The goal was to capture a specific vibe and atmosphere of music and a colorful cyberpunk future dystopia using words alone. 
> 
> This entire story was an exercise in a writing style meant to mimic a music album. 
> 
> Stay safe. Happy reading <33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were my last young renegade heartache  
> It only took one night  
> Caught in the eye of a hurricane, darling  
> We had to say goodbye
> 
> I want to know that you're somewhere out there  
> Somewhere down this road  
> You were my last young renegade heartache  
> How could I let you, how could I let you go?

Forever is a fickle bitch. Words disappear like smoke in the hazy summer air. Promises are sweet whispers slipping from bruised lips, wet and glistening and intoxicating, only to turn sour when the harsh light of dawn peers between cracked blinds. 

Promises are as fragile as hopes and dreams, crackling like porcelain on the chipped concrete. They hold a place in his heart, buried in an area of limbo, juxtaposed between regret and what if. 

Keith Kogane.

It’s been years since Lance has allowed himself to think about that name. About him. 

That’s not to say he hasn’t always been there. Hidden in the shadows. Behind his eyelids. Existing in a part of him that he refuses to look at, but feels lingering in his thoughts and doubts nonetheless. A part of him that’s given strength whenever he catches a glimpse of the stars above the city haze. Whenever he smells that familiar mix of smoke, leather, oil, and blood. Whenever he feels hands on his skin, soft yet calloused, the strength lurking in the touch. 

Keith Kogane. 

Violet eyes. Bite to his words. A fire in his gaze and his touch. Lips mocking, curled into a dare, plump and swollen and split. 

Keith Kogane. 

They were once a burning flame, uncontrollable and wild. One touch to ignite a blaze that lasted throughout the night. One night was all it took to douse the flames. Reduce them to mere smoke in the summer rain. 

Keith Kogane.

An ember inside him that refuses to die. No matter how smoldered the fire. No matter the ruins of ash left behind. An ember that lives on. Distant and cold, but alive. An ember that flares occasionally, fueled by his weakness to memories. Weakness to the smell of smoke and leather. Memories brought up by a rough touch and or a tongue that tastes of blood. 

Memories that are always edged with regret and sharp with ache. Memories that are tainted, bringing in their wake a bitter anger that refuses to dissipate, lest it give way to a deeper ache that refuses to feel.

He should’ve known. In a way, he _did_ know. He knew, and he didn’t care. He decided what they felt, what they had, their chemistry was enough. Enough to quell the doubts and the reality.

But they were in the eye of a hurricane, and it was only a matter of time before they had to go their separate ways. 

Words and promises, whispers of forever, lost to the howling winds and the driving rain. Leaving their fire smoldered and the smoke lost to the haze of dawn. 

Keith Kogane. 

He lifts a hand, spreading his fingers wide. Long, crooked fingers. Wide palms. Small wrists. He twists his hand slowly, watching the neon lights play off of bronze skin. Gold. Blue. Pink. Green. Flickering. Ghostly. Caught between looking beautiful and sickly. 

Beneath the colors, he can see the scars. Small, but he knows they’re there. A white blemish on his knuckle. A pale line across his palm. A few nicks on the back of his hand. He remembers each of them. Remembers how each and every one of them have their founding grounded in the name Keith Kogane. Scars that have healed and only show themselves as tricks of the light.

It’s the scars he can’t see that still ache. 

The chill of the night seeps past the collar of his jacket, bringing a much needed relief to heated flesh. He shivers with it, shoulders hunching as he shoves his hand back into his pocket, burying it deep. 

He feels the ember growing again. Feels it burning deep within his core, in a place where he hoped it would never see the light of day again. Feels it like an itch beneath his skin. A restlessness he can’t ignore. An anxiousness that crawls just below the surface, threatening to chip away at his defenses and devour him whole.

Gritting his teeth, feeling the tick in his jaw, he pushes off the brick wall, scuffing his boots on the worn concrete. “Hey, you guys got this deal, right?”

He spins to face Hunk and Pidge, hands buried in his pockets, clenched into fists. Nails bite into his palms, and the pain is grounding, but it doesn’t negate the itch. He forces his shoulders to relax and his posture to slouch. Lolls his head to the side as he looks between them.

Pidge crouches on the ground, propped up on her toes, sitting on her heels, back to the wall. Her tablet is settled on her knees, holographic display projected in front of her. Her fingers still as she glances up at him, peering over the rim of her glasses. He can see text scrawled across the lenses. 

Hunk leans against the wall next to her, one foot lifted to press against the bricks. He’s been fiddling with the device on his wrist, but Lance hasn’t bothered to figure out what he’s been doing. He’s been too distracted. Too lost to shadows and ghosts that refuse to leave him be. Crawling back from the grave with the haunting fire of violet eyes and a desperate touch. 

Hunk and Pidge exchange looks, curious, dubious, and concerned. When they look back to him, Pidge is frowning and Hunk’s brows are furrowed. 

“I mean, we were _all_ assigned to this deal,” Pidge says slowly. “We’re set to meet up with them in fifteen.”

Lance shrugs with one shoulder, letting it rise and fall with practiced ease. His eyes wander away from them. To the neon signs that hang from the walls. To the main street and the bodies that hurry past the mouth of the alleyway. The rush of hover cars and speeders as they zip past. “Yeah, but you don’t need _me_ , right?” He waves a hand vaguely in the air, gesturing to them both. “I mean, you’re the brains. You usually do all the talking. Hunk is the muscle, because literally everyone is afraid of him. I’m just kinda here for numbers. You don’t _need_ me, right?”

There’s a plea there. Silent and subtle. Just hovering beneath his words. Slinking in the pauses and contouring the undertones of his voice. He doubts anyone else would’ve picked up on it. But these are his friends, and he can tell from the way they exchange looks that they recognize it. 

“You okay, buddy?” And shit, there’s Hunk’s soft voice. That’s the _last_ thing he needs. That’s the voice that barrels right through his defenses, and those walls are the only things keeping him standing. 

“Fine.” Even he can tell his voice is tight. He purses his lips, lifting his chin just a fraction. “I’m gonna go for a ride.”

Hunk’s brows go up at that, and he blinks. “The motorway?”

Lance gives him a sharp nod, tight lips and hardened eyes. In his peripheral vision, he can see Pidge looking between them, but he holds Hunk’s gaze. 

Hunk frowns. “Lance—”

“You know where to find me,” he says, spinning on his heel. He walks toward the mouth of the alley. Not quickly, but certainly with purpose. Lifting a hand to wave, he calls out behind him. “Call me if you need me. I need to get some air.”

They don’t try to stop him, but he didn’t think they would. They both know he has moments like this. When the anxiousness and restlessness make a home beneath his skin. When he has thoughts nipping at his heels and clawing at his back. Sometimes he needs a distraction. Sometimes he needs adrenaline. Sometimes he needs a fight. 

But with this. With Keith Kogane. He needs the motorway. 

His speeder is parked just around the corner. When she had been pristine, she had shined white and blue. Now she’s dented, dirtied, and dinged beyond true repair. He doesn’t care. It adds to her character. A testament to his life. What he’s survived. What he’s capable of. And she still runs like a dream.

Swinging his leg over, he settles into the soft leather of her seat. Body already alive at the familiar feel of her between his thighs. Beneath him. 

With his thumb, he spins the ring on his index finger. Twisting it around until the crystal blue gem faces down, the same direction as his palm. And then he slaps his hand down on the circular pad in front of him, between the handlebars. The pad flashes to life, reacting to the key housed in the gem of his ring. Flickering blue and white light flooding through the console, bringing his bike to life. The pad beneath his hand flashes, scanning his palm, before momentarily blinking green. 

Then his bike roars to life, a hum and vibration that rages through him, settling into something powerful and familiar beneath him. It lifts seamlessly from the ground, hover engines smooth and pristine and far more powerful than the commercial ones, thanks to Pidge and Hunk.

He grins. Feels it wild and manic as it stretches his lips and aches in his cheeks. Heart beating wildly in his chest. 

The ember burns, but in this moment, it can’t touch hm.

* * *

The air is chilled but thick with moisture. It whips past him, tugging at his clothes and biting at his skin. Hunk would kill him if he knew Lance was riding without a helmet, but it’s worth it to feel the wind combing through his hair, cutting across his neck, stinging in his eyes and bruising his cheeks. 

The thrill. The adrenaline. The wild beat of his heart lost to the whip of wind tearing past his ears. 

_Violet eyes, burning against his skin. Hands, desperate and firm. Holding him. Pushing against him. Grabbing him. Blunt nails clawing against flesh and tearing uselessly against clothes. Fingers bunching up in his hair and tugging at the roots. Desperate. Clinging. Needy._

The motorway curved around the city. A large outer belt that circled it endlessly. Offering different avenues into the city streets or curving out into the wastelands between cities. Large concrete roads. Wide and dominating. Rising out of the earth like ancient monstrosities. Chipped and cracked. Blackened with soot and perpetually damp with fog. Twisting and coiling above, under, and around one another. Giant, man-made snakes that writhed below. 

_Bloody lips and split knuckles. Hands that wiped sweat from their faces only to trail streaks of red. Eyes flaring. Bright and alive. A fire burning in them. Cheeks pink with exertion. A smirk that tugged at the corner of lips, leaving them powerless to fight it. Back to back. Pressed tight. Safe as they faced other. Exchanging wild and manic grins. Eyes blazing. Bruises. Cuts. Pain to remind them that they’re alive. Pain that makes life thrilling. Bleeding exhilaration into ecstasy as they came together after the fight. Wounds stinging, but ignored as pleasured dulled their aches. Overriding them until they were high— high— high— on each other, on life, on adrenaline and bad decisions leading to good rewards._

Billboards lined the motorway. Flashing. Bright and hypnotic. Some were pads with holograms. Dancing girls. Seductive men. Advertisements for bars, clubs, medications that were barely legal. Surgeries. Lawyers. Companies that no one could live in the city without knowing about anyway. 

They flashed as he sped past. Colors and lights blurring together. Streaks of nothing. Streaks of everything. Splashes of colors in the darkness of the night. Lights burning through the fog. Streaks to his vision as he stared forward, lining the edges of the motorway. Creating walls. Walls that kept him safe. Comforted him in their familiarity. 

_A pale face. Angles sharp in anger. Soft in longing. Lips quick to scowl and slow to laugh. A laugh that felt like its own reward. A laugh worth every ounce of effort used to pull it from him. A smile that felt like a star peeking through the smoke. Rare and beautiful and blinding. Butterflies in his chest. A pleasant crawling beneath his skin. Electricity sizzling through his nerves as he reached out to touch. A violent thrill racing down his spine as he was allowed to. Allowed to touch and explore. As hands came to him in kind._

The motorway was crowded. The entire air of it, rising high above the concrete baseline. Hover cars. Speeders. Hoverbikes. Domestic ships. All with hoverengines and anti-grav mods. Lanes were a thing of the past. If he looks closely, he can still see the faded paint on the construct below. Here, in the air, it’s a free for all. The police have far more to deal with than traffic laws. 

They weave around each other, speeding past. Each and every one of them with their own agendas and places to be. They regard others on the motorway as obstacles. Things in the way. Ignore. Avoid. 

Lance whips by close to the ground, where the crowd is thinner. He weaves through the people he does see, speeding far faster than any of their commercial and custom jobs are able to go. The Paladins have the best of the best mods to their speeders, courtesy of Pidge and Hunk. Not even the Galra can catch his ride. And it’s saved his ass a time or two. 

_A challenge sparking in his eyes. A dare coiling around the edges of his words. A smirk lurking in the corners of his lips. A hair from mocking. An inch from hopeful. A hundred percent goading, and positively knowing. He dangles bait, and Lance can’t help but to snap. To rise to it. To rush on after him. He’s addictive. Transfixing. Intoxicating. He can fight it all he wants, they both know he’ll give in. He’ll chase to the ends of the earth just for the possibility to prove himself better. Or for a smile. He’ll take both. The challenge is a fire in his veins. A vibration in his core. It makes him feel alive._ He _makes Lance feel alive._

And when Lance knows it’s not just him. When he dangles the bait, Keith is right there to grab for it. Right there to grab for him.

With speed comes danger, and Lance lives in the thrill of it. Feels it thrumming through his veins. Feels the wind like sparks across his skin. Feels the tug of it, the tug of gravity and momentum, and he resists it. Leans into it. Fights it, and comes out victorious. He speeds through it, cuts through it like a knife as he rips down the motorway, leaving others in the dust.

As he leaves the shadows behind him. Where his thoughts can’t reach him. Leaves his heart lodged in his throat and incapable of feeling much more than the rapid pulse of freedom. As he outruns his ghosts. 

Keith’s ghost, however, has always been persistent. He comes to the motorway to escape it, but it’s always right there with him. Right behind him. Sturdy and begging for his attention.

_Hands wrapped around his middle. Himself plastered to a solid back. Wind in their hair and stealing away their laughter. Bodies tight. Warm. Sweat soaking into their clothes beneath the summer sun, blazing and burning through the city haze. Words like forever slipping through his mind, settling and burrowing themselves into his heart. Taking up root and refusing to be shaken free._

Because Keith, everything about him, just slots together with Lance. He feels it. Feels the way they just are. The way they work. All the things they could be, all at once. He feels it. He knows it. 

And then when Keith left, Lance let him go. 

Shadows are easy to leave behind, but the ghosts that are a part of you are harder to run from. There will always come a day when you have to stop running. When you have to face your ghosts. Face the truths that you’ve been too scared to see. Accept the things you cannot change. Accept the things that you want to do, need to do, but fear all the same. 

Even as the wind rips tears from his eyes and bruises his cheeks, even as it tears at his clothes and his knuckles go white from the chill and his grip, even as he runs, he knows today will be the day he stops. 

But for now, he’ll let himself revel in the escape.

* * *

Hunk finds him in his favorite spot. On the bridge crossing over the bay.

The speeder is near silent as it pulls up behind him. They’re specifically designed to keep the noise to a minimum. On a normal street, surrounded by the white noise of a city, or on the motorway with the roaring engines of the other vehicles, the gentle hum would be barely noticeable. 

But out here, on a bridge barely traversed, it’s a gentle hum that cuts through the silence. 

He doesn’t turn as the engine cuts, nor when he hears heavy footsteps on the crumbling concrete. He doesn’t even turn when Hunk sits beside him, settling on the waist high ledge of the bridge, feet dangling over the dark, choppy water below. 

And for a long moment, they simply sit like that. Content in their silence. Sitting close enough that their arms touch, and leaning into it for the warmth and comfort of it. To know they’re not alone. 

Lance had grown up in the urban suburbs of the city. Crowded, overpopulated, and cramped. He grew up surrounded by people and surrounded by noise. Noise was his cocoon of comfort. A reminder that people were around. That he wasn’t alone. There was comfort in numbers. Comfort in the sounds of civilization. Even now, living deep within the cesspit of the city, he was surrounded by noise. He lived by the rush of vehicles and the din of conversation. He lost himself to the beat of the night, music and laughter and voices. He slept to the sound of shouting, crying, the screech of machinery and the monochromatic tones of advertisements. 

He had always thought silence was oppressive. Could feel it like a pressure against his skin. A thickness in his throat. A ringing in his ears. 

Then Keith Kogane wandered into his life, and made him appreciate the peace between moments. The gentle lap of waves. The quiet between words. The distant blink of stars. 

It was Keith who showed him this spot.

He can see them now. The stars. He’d heard of them before. Everyone has. But living in the city, around the city, it’s hard to see them. Between the haze, the clouds, the smoke, and the lights, the night sky is a dark void. Sometimes the veiled light of the moon can be seen, blurry but persistent through the fog, but the stars are always lost. 

Then Keith brought him out to the bridge, and Lance was struck and mesmerized by the cosmos. 

On a cloudless night, he can see them. Twinkling dots of light on a blanket of empty space. So many of them. Far more than he ever imagined. They spent hours finding shapes in the sky. Discussing the universe. Imagining the galaxies. 

He still comes out here to think, despite how heavily Keith’s presence clings to this place. Some part of him, wrapped up and smothered in layers of self preservation, hopes that he’ll find Keith here one night. But he never has. And he hates how disappointment tastes on his tongue. 

The bridge is one of the offshoots from the motorway, stretching out across the bay to the darkness of the distant shore. The bridge itself has been left to rot, like most of the streets, but it’s more weathered from the ocean and the wind. It crumbles in some places, but their hover engines allow passage easily. Not even the neon glow of billboards stretches this far outside the city limits. Few come out this way, and only when they’re travelling to another city beyond the bay.

It’s strange. This depth of darkness. Much like noise, he’s always been surrounded by light. He always thought shadows would be unnerving. Instead, he finds a peace in them. 

“So,” Hunk says, dipping gently into the silence between them. Lance feels the ripples like shivers across his skin. “The deal went smoothly.”

Lance hums. He knew it would. It was small time business. They wouldn’t dare try to cheat the Paladins. Allura’s reputation precedes them, and it’s not one people take lightly. The Princess is as ruthless as she is kind. Two sides of the same coin.

“Pidge is taking care of the logistics of it. Got their info and everything. Added it to the database. Got some test product. She’s bringing it back to Allura and Coran.”

Lance hums again, head absently bobbing. His chin is tilted up slightly as he stares out beyond the bay. To the darkness of the ocean. Where the horizon meets water and the scars splatter the night sky. 

“So...,” Hunk tries again, voice turning a hair more cautious, an inch more casual, a fraction more neutral. “The motorway?”

“Yup,” Lance says, popping the last syllable. 

“This about him again?”

He doesn’t need to ask. Hunk knows. Hunk was there for the fallout. Lance tilts his head to the side, a wry smile on his lips. A bitterness in his voice. A mockery in his breathy chuckle. “You’d think I’d be over him by now, huh? Pretty pathetic.”

“I guess, but...,” Hunk hums, leaning back and placing his hands behind him on the ledge, idly kicking his feet and letting his heels bounce on the concrete. “Why aren’t you?”

Lance tilts his head then, just enough that his eyes catch Hunk’s small, contemplative frown. He feels his own mirror it. “What?”

“I was just thinking like, you meet a lot of people. You go out with a lot of people. A lot of them only last the night, some of them last a couple months, but like... they all end, right?”

Lance feels the echo of something bitter on his tongue. It’s true enough. There’s no point in denying it. “Right.”

“And you don’t really get hung up on them. You always move on. I pretty much never hear about them after they leave.”

Lance sighs. An exhale that lasts a moment too long. His shoulder slouch with it. “Right.” He barely remembers their names. Barely remembers their faces. People who have come and gone. People who had been momentary pleasures, the next hit, the next high, the next escape. Nothing more. Nothing less. He’s never been one for attachments. Not like that. 

“So I’m just wondering... why is Keith different? You’re still this hung up on him after _years_ , dude. Not that I’m judging, you know I’m not. I just...” He pauses, and when he continues, his voice is much softer. Gentler. Guiding with a subtle touch. “What makes him different from all the others?”

Lance’s gaze slides back out to sea. He can smell the salt in the air. Feel it in the breeze. 

Why _is_ Keith Kogane different?

He’s been wondering the same thing for years. But he knows that he _knows_ the answer. Knows it lies behind all those walls he keeps firmly in place. Knows it lays with that ember he feels living on inside him. 

He’s known it all along, but it’s a truth he’s refused to face. A truth he’s turned his back on. One that he knows will crumble the foundation that’s made him strong. One that pushes him out into an unknown. A darkness he’s afraid of. It’s comfortable here. Where he is. Where he can live without facing it. Doused in the neon lights of the city and the flashing strobes of the clubs. It’s safe where he can lay beside a faceless, nameless person who has his body, but not his heart. 

His body can heal. His body can bruise and scab and scar. 

His heart though? He’s not so sure. 

Still, as he stares out to the stars, he comes to a realization. 

It doesn’t hit him hard. Nor does it knock the wind out of him. It doesn’t come to him as a stranger. It doesn’t come to him with fear or uncertainty. It settles around him like the presence of an old friend. It comes with familiarity and comfort. It settles around him, inside him, like a second skin. One that feels right. Warm.

A realization that this spot, here, thick with memories he’s shared with Keith. Here is where he learned the stars exist. That the universe exists. It’s here that he learned that silence and darkness aren’t something to be feared, but something he can find comfort in. It’s here that he learned that being alone, taking a moment to breathe, taking a moment to himself, slowing down, can be peaceful. 

So it might as well be here that he faces another monster that he’s always feared. 

His nails pick at the worn concrete beneath him, idly tapping on its surface. And when he speaks, it’s not so much a whisper as a breath of air. An exhale drifting past his vocal cords, drawing the truth from his lips. “He broke my heart, Hunk.”

There’s a shifting next to him. An arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a firm body. He melts into the touch. Lets his head fall until it hits Hunk’s. “I know, buddy.”

“He’s the only one I actually cared about.”

“I know.”

“I thought we would— like, stick around—”

“I know.”

He feels his body hunch, curling slightly into itself, as if he might protect that ember inside him. And he says what he’s been afraid to acknowledge. “I miss him, Hunk. Every stupid day.”

The squeeze of the arm around him. An understanding sigh. “I know, buddy.”

“I know he left, but... I let him go. I know why he left, and I didn’t bother trying to stop him. I could’ve gone _with_ him, Hunk. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me— no offense.”

“None taken.”

“But I still let him— _how_ could I have let him go?”

“You were young, man. We all make mistakes. We all do things we regret. And this is just one of yours.” Hunk wraps him up in both arms, pulling him into a tight embrace, and Lance turns to meet it. Wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in Hunk’s shoulder. Breathing in the familiar scent of motor oil and manufactured coconut. “Who knows? Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he’s still down your road of life, you know? Just... a little bit further ahead than you originally thought.”

Lance stiffens then. Just a fraction. But it’s enough for Hunk to notice. He pulls back, hands still on Lance’s shoulders as he holds him at arm’s length. His eyes roam over Lance’s expression, but he turns his head, gaze once again finding the stars. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” He asks, because of course Hunk would notice. Hunk knows him. Hunk knows there’s usually a trigger for Lance to escape to the motorway. “Why’d you come out here tonight?”

Lance breathes in deep. Breathes in the thick, salt air. Chilled with the edge of night. And holds it in his lungs. Closes his eyes, and just focuses on the feeling of the breeze caressing his skin. “I saw him tonight.”

“You— _What?_ ”

He opens his eyes, gaze finding the stars. Fixating on Keith’s favorite constellation. “I saw him. Briefly. On our way to Voltron, before the deal. Saw him with a group of people getting off speeders outside the Renegade club. They went inside before I could get a better look, but Hunk— I’d know that goddamn hair _anywhere_. I _know_ it was him. He’s back.”

Silence stretches between them. Flooding in to fill the void left by Lance’s voice. Filling, overflowing, stretching, and choking, and thick. He can feel Hunk’s eyes on him, but he keeps his turned carefully away. His insides are a mess, twisted and contorted. Leaden and heavy. He doesn’t know if he wants to dance or puke. If he wants to scream or laugh.

Finally, Hunk cuts through the silence once more. This time with a long, low whistle. “Dude.”

“I know.”

“ _Dude_.”

“ _I know_.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I... I don’t know.” And that’s the problem, isn’t it? There’s so much he could do. So much he wants to do. But he doesn’t know what would best. To ignore him. To put himself out there. To open himself up to hurt again or lock that door forever. 

Hunk pauses for just a moment, then speaks in that guiding voice. The gentle one that leads Lance unwillingly but gently to conclusions he’s afraid of facing. “Are you going to let him go again without a fight?”

And then, Lance _does_ laugh. It bubbles out of him. A hair too manic, an inch hysterical, and a fraction too dry. It rumbles out of his chest and spills past his lips, making him feel lighter and lightheaded. Making him feel a strange sort of adrenaline. “ _Fuck_ no!”

* * *

The Renegade is a club off tenth street, just outside of the Paladin’s own territory. Former territory of the Altean Empire before they fell. Mostly unclaimed, but word on the street is a new gang is coming into the light to set up roots. 

As long as they aren’t Galra, they have little to worry about.

He doesn’t have a plan. Doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t even know if Keith is still there. Doesn’t know what’ll happen if or when he finds him. Doesn’t know what he’ll say or what he’ll feel. 

As he and Hunk speed off the motorway, weaving through the small, much more crowded street junctions, aiming towards tenth, all he can feel is his heartbeat against his ribs and the tightness of his lungs. The thrill in his veins. The knot in his stomach. The ember in his heart that _burns_.

He doesn’t know what will happen with Keith, and he doesn’t _care_. As long as something does. 

The Renegade is easy to spot. Their sign is faulty and flickering, but tall and large. Casting the surrounding buildings in red and blue. Reflecting purple off the windows of the taller buildings that surround it. 

As they near it, he slows, and Hunk hovers just beside him. They lower to street level, weaving around and through people, slowing to a driveby speed. 

Turns out, finding Keith isn’t nearly as hard as he feared it might be. 

He’s outside of the club, standing on the sidewalk. Wearing tight, black pants. Tall boots that reflect the red and blue lights. A dark shirt, covered by a cropped purple, gray, and black jacket. Hair dark. Windswept. Longer than Lance remembers. Shoulders broad and strong. Stance speaking of confidence and certainty. Lance can see just a hint of his profile. His sharp jaw. His delicate nose. High cheekbones. 

He’s speaking to two others dressed in the same jacket, back to a line-up of nondescript black speeders. Standing close enough to assume they’re theirs. 

As soon as he sees him, Lance’s breath catches in his throat. Stopped by his heart firmly lodging itself there. The ember in his chest _burns_. Throbs. Pulses. His lungs feel tight, and the knot in his gut is lead. But his skin buzzes with a familiar feeling. A spark of something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. 

Restless, but not anxious. Restless and eager. A thrill. Of joy, not fear. A sense of danger, but one that feels dangerous for whole new reasons. Reasons that make his blood run hot and his skin feel cold. 

He feels _alive_ in a way he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

He knows the smile is on his lips. Just as he knows he can’t control it. He feels wild. Restless. Energy buzzing beneath his skin, crawling and growling, searching for an outlet. Desire bubbling in him. For something. Anything. This is a familiar heat. A familiar sensation. One of reckless abandon. One of freedom. One that he’s gotten a taste of before and has found himself craving, _needing_ , ever since. 

So it’s with a juxtaposed sense of familiarity and unknown that he slows to a stop outside the Renegade. Speeder hovering just above the street. 

With a wild sense of reverie that he shouts, “Hey, Kogane!”

Keith freezes, shoulders tensing for just a moment before he turns. And Lance is once again caught up in violet eyes, reflecting the lights around them, absorbing them into voids of the midnight sky. The air rushes from his lungs as he’s caught in that gaze. As he watches emotions pass over those features, familiar but sharper and broader with the test of time. 

Surprise. Confusion. Recognition. Shock. Awe. 

Lance grins, wide and toothy, feeling the sweeping breeze through his hair. Feels manic and wild and young and _free_. Feels the thump of his heart like a bassline to drive him forward. Feels the air between them sizzle and crack with a tension that has yet to be determined if it’s good or bad. 

“Wanna race?”

He sees the spark in Keith’s eyes. Sees them narrow and flare with determination. Sees the edges of his lips coil with the challenge. Feels his gaze like a dare. 

And the ember in Lance’s chest ignites, running with white hot heat through his veins as his grip tightens on his handlebars. He takes off into the night, laugh lost to the wind as he hears Keith’s speeder behind him.

For the first time in a long time, he hopes his ghost will catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	2. Track 2: Drugs & Candy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and me are like drugs and candy (drugs and candy)  
> Take one down for the young and easy (young and easy)  
> You've got me out of my head  
> I fill this space in your bed  
> High on the beat of a breakdown  
> 'Cause you and me are like drugs and candy (drugs and candy)  
> And I don't wanna give it up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for your amazing comments! I'm so glad you're feeling the vibe I wanted to get across, and I'm so glad you can FEEL the song in it! I hope you enjoy this ride <33
> 
> I explained this fic's inspiration in the first chapter notes, but I HIGHLY recommend listening to the album! Every chapter is based on a song in the album **Last Young Renegade** by All Time Low. They appear in the order on the album. I hope you can feel the vibe of each chapter in each song, and each song might give you a little foreshadowing ;)
> 
> I want to give you more music that you will always associate with klance
> 
> For this whole fic, please mind the tags for possible triggers. I won't be giving chapter specific triggers, but just in general be mindful of: drugs, alcohol, general violence, and sexual content.

Keith hates memories. 

Haunting and clinging. Digging claws into him and refusing to let him go. A weight that drags him down, threatening to overturn his balance and suck him down into a void. A void of shadows. Of nothingness. A pit that he's spent years trying to climb his way out of. 

Memories worn like a second skin, shaping him, clinging to him, with him every moment of every day. Guiding his actions. His decisions. 

Memories trapped deep inside. Locked away in cages and dark rooms. Memories that he refuses to let see the light of day, lest they tear him apart and leave him as nothing but a hollow shell.

Memories that live in his mind. Lurking in his thoughts. Whispering in the shadows. Waiting. Watching. Revealing themselves like a moment of weakness. Leaving him reeling. Unbalanced. Unable to breathe.

Memories like embers, refusing to die, no matter how much he tries to smother their flame. No matter how much he tries to leave them behind. No matter how much he tries to forget.

Embers that never die. Embers he ignores, turns from, but knows that deep down, he can never put out completely. Knows he doesn't want to. Knows that their loss would hurt him more than their existence. 

Memories like embers he keeps deep down. Treasures hidden and buried in the ashes of the past. Ones he digs up in the shielding dark of night, when he's lost in time and thoughts. Ones he pulls from the ash and holds in his hands, imagining a world of what-if's until the burn becomes unbearable. 

Memories live in the past, holding ghosts that refuse to leave him.

Keith has many ghosts that haunt him.

Some he runs from. Some he's desperately looking to find. 

And some find him. Over and over again. Catching up to him and reaching for him until he has no choice but to face them.

"He's here again." Regris's voice is low, rumbling beneath the pound of the bass. 

Keith leans forward, forearms resting against the surface of the bar. Wood polished and sticky. Reflecting the flashing neon lights that pulse through the club. His fingers idly run through the condensation gathering on his glass, cold and grounding in the heat of the club. One foot propped up on the foot rail beneath the bar. 

His heart hammers painfully in his chest, a trickle of anticipation twisting its way down his spine.

He taps a finger on his glass, humming his acknowledgement. "Not surprised anymore."

Regris stands next to him, back to the bar, elbows resting atop it. He's turned out to the crowd. Monitoring. Keeping an eye out. The Renegade is theirs now, but the claiming of territory is a tricky and slow business. They're careful and methodical, meticulously carving out an area for themselves. Until they're established and respected, they need to stay on guard. 

Even then, it never hurts to be careful.

"Those two are with him. The big one and the small one."

Keith lifts his glass, hovering the cold lip of it near his mouth without quite drinking. "Hunk and Pidge."

Regris mumbles something unintelligible that Keith doesn't catch. Doesn't care to. They're companions, but not friends. Allies. They work together. Travel together. They respect each other. They watch out for each other. But they're not friends. He's learned that the hard way. In the early years, he tried to get attached. He learned he shouldn't. It's just business. 

They'll watch each other's backs. They'll help each other. They'll work together. They'll save each other's lives. But when the going gets tough, the tough get going. 

Nothing is more important than the mission.

Not Keith. Not Regris. Not any sole member. Take down the Galra or die trying. The Blade needs to continue, even if one person cannot. Failure is not an option, even if death is. 

Too bad Keith has his own mission. 

He believes in the Blade. He does. He'll fight with them because their goals align. But bottom line is they're a means to an end. Back then, they were what he needed. Offered him what he needed. Resources. Information. Back up. A chance. A place in this cruel world.

But the fact of the matter is that nothing is more important than the mission, and Keith's mission differs from the Blade’s. His mission is Shiro.

"Want me to stick around?" Regris asks, but he sounds like he already knows the answer. It's always the same.

Keith takes a drink. Feels the burn of it on his tongue, bitter and sharp. Enjoys the burn down his throat, raw and tearing. He licks his lips, and despite the bitterness of the whiskey, he can almost taste the phantom sweetness of Lance's lips. "No. I can handle him."

"Be careful who you associate with, Keith."

"Kolivan wants an alliance with the Paladins." He sets his glass down heavily, finger toying with the lip of it. "They're Paladins. I'm playing nice."

"Just don't fuck over our chances if things go sour."

Keith looks at him sidelong, glare sharp and dangerous. Regris doesn't flinch, but he rarely does. His gaze is locked across the room, lips pursed into a small frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He downs the rest of his drink, turning to face Keith as he slams the empty glass on the bar top. He meets Keith's gaze, eyes hard in warning. A touch of concern. For the mission or for Keith, he's not sure. "Don't hurt him."

Keith's stomach twists. Lead forming in his gut. Sour and painful. Burning through him like acid. Clawing through his insides. Reaching up with toxic fingers to tear at his heart. 

_ Blue eyes. Wild and chaotic, dark and unpredictable. A storm at sea. A swirling hurricane of anger. Of confusion. Of hurt. Threatening to grab hold of him, drag him down to the depths, choke him, drown him. Suck him into an abyss where he's directionless and lost. Nothingness. Blue eyes cold like the sea. Frigid and forming ice in his veins. Face, beautiful and sharp, lacking all its normal warmth. Lacking the light of his smile. Hardened and sharpened. Tongue lined with barbs as he tells Keith to leave. Pain edging his words beneath the venom. Pain fringing the thorns of his glare. Pain in the center of that storm in his eyes. Pain that Keith can feel like a knife to his chest, twisting deep and scarring. Until the echo of that pain still throbs whenever the ghost of memory rears its ugly head.  _

Keith frowns, turning back to his drink, a pulse of pain echoing with each pound of his heart. 

Too late. 

He's already hurt him.

But he keeps coming back, and Keith can't push him away.

It took everything in him to do it the first time.

He's not strong enough to do it again.

Regris leaves his side, and only moments later it's filled. A body close to his own. The warmth of him pressing into Keith's side as an arm falls over his shoulder. The smell of him, somehow crisp and clean despite the smoke and grime of the club. It's familiar. It reminds Keith of nights spent beneath the stars. 

He turns his head to it. Just slightly. Just enough to gaze at him sidelong. To catch a glimpse of his face. Beautiful. Angles of it sharper and broader than he remembers. An age lining him that wasn't there before. Shoulders broader. Body taller. Leaner. Hips narrow and legs long. 

Hands wide and fingers slender as they run through his hair, twisting the tips between his knuckles. 

"Come here often?" His voice is low. Rough. Lilting and dancing as it skims across the pounding bass. 

Keith feels his lips quirk at the edges. It's a familiar back and forth. He falls into it easily. "You need new lines."

Lance McClain.

An ember that refuses to die. One that Keith stubbornly refuses to let go.

Lance McClain.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here, wrapped in the cloud of smoke and twisting easily through the throngs of writhing bodies. He shouldn't be here, flashing neon lights playing across his bronze skin, highlighting the dangerous gleam of his eyes and the challenge of his smile. He shouldn't be here, with shadows cast beneath his eyes and filling the wake of his mirth. 

He should be with the Garrison where Keith left him. He should be working to do better, to be better. He should be following in Shiro's footsteps. A poster boy. He should be a soldier. An explorer. He should be living his dreams. His fantasies. He shouldn’t know the shattered reality of the lower city.

He should be high above. In the tops of the towers. Where the smoke is thinner and they can actually feel the warmth of the sun. He should be above all of this. Where things gleam and shine. 

He should be out of this city, out on adventure, smiling and laughing and never knowing hardship.

That's where Keith left him. That's where he should be. Living out the dreams they shared.

He shouldn't be here, stalking the cracked concrete like he owns it. Walking into clubs like he's done it a million times before. He shouldn't look so good with smoke trailing from his lips and the neon lights caressing his skin. He shouldn't own the streets on a speeder, reckless and wild, riding the line between dangerous and thrill seeking. Taunting death with his smile and cracked lips. 

He shouldn't be in Keith's world, yet here he is. Confident as always. Cocky and sure. Living in the muck and grime and shadows of this city like a breathing diamond. Hard at the edges but gleaming with all the beauty that people here can't touch.

He shouldn't be here.

Yet here he is.

Pressed against Keith's side, points of their bodies touching igniting fire beneath his skin. Weight of his arm across Keith’s shoulders familiar and comforting. Smell of him so subtle yet somehow stronger than the reek of the club. Of the bodies around them. 

He chuckles, and Keith can feel it vibrate down his spine. 

Because that's what Lance is. A vibration. A wave in the air. He changes the air when he walks into a room. It's palpable. A shift. The way he moves. The way he smiles. The way he digs into people and pulls them out from behind their walls. The way he makes people better. The sound of his laugh.

It's an outlasting vibration that Keith has never been able to shake. It's always been there. In his memories. Beneath his skin. Sinking deep into his core. Waiting. Watching. He can't escape it. He doesn't want to escape it.

Lance leans over the bar, catching the bartender's attention and ordering. It's with a charming smile. One that makes Keith's stomach flip. The arm on his shoulders shifts. Broad hand sliding down his back, slipping beneath his jacket, resting at the base of his spine. 

It's casual.

It's intimate.

It  _ burns _ .

"You never complained about my lines before." He turns to Keith. Standing far too close. Drink cradled between his fingers, dangling above the bar. 

Keith turns to him. Faces that smirk. Feeling his own tug at his lips. Lance's hand shifts to his waist. His hip. He doesn't pull away. He leans closer. "I've always hated your lines. They're terrible."

Lance huffs a short laugh. Keith can feel it against his skin. "Like yours are any better?"

Eyes lidded. Smirk quirked wider. Keith breathes him in. Lets him fill his lungs. Feels the high from it. The way his blood buzzes in his veins and his heart hammers in his chest. Feels the way his skin tingles. Oversensitive. Far too aware of everywhere they touch and everywhere they haven't quite. "I never needed any lines."

Lance hums, head tilting just so. Eyes dark and lidded. "I suppose that's true."

Keith's blood pulses with the bass. The music drags across his skin. Adrenaline singing in his ears. The club is full. Bodies writhing beneath the layer of smoke. Still images caught in freeze frame as the strobe lights flash. The smell of cigarettes and the sour stench of weed. Alcohol, bitter on their mingling breaths. Bodies. People. Searching for an escape. Chasing a high. Finding a pocket to remove themselves from a crumbling reality. If only for a night.

And every night after that. 

"What're you doing here, Lance?" 

Here, with the worthless and the broken. Here, at the bottom of the city, where he should be shining at the top. Here, dwelling in the realm of broken dreams and shattered fantasies. Here, where reality is cold and harsh, hardening nerves and skin, withering hope and happiness. 

Here, at the Renegade. Wearing his trademark smirk, casting tantalizing shadows in the neon glow of the lights above the bar. Here, with a Paladin V embroidered in blue across the back of his leather jacket. Here, well outside of his established territory. 

Here, in a world where it's hunt or be hunted. Where bruises make a home on their skin far more often than smiles. 

Lance's hand slips down to his hip, fingers tugging at and playing with the leather of his belts. Playful. Teasing. Demanding. He lifts his chin, just enough to brush his nose against Keiths. Sending shivers down his spine at the intimacy of it. "Just looking for a little fun. Know where I can find some?"

"Nope," he says, but he's not pulling away. He doesn't think he can. He knows Lance doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker down to his lips. Not with the way those lips curl into a devilish smirk.

"Wanna dance?"

Keith knows this game. 

"I don't dance."

They've been through it many times before. They go through it most nights. Lance finds him. Lance goads him. Keith gives in because he's powerless to resist. Because Lance is a ghost he doesn’t want to shake. A ghost that carries with him a memory of a time when Keith was happy. 

And if only for a moment, Lance offers that sweet taste of contentment. An echo of what they once had. 

Keith wants it. 

"What's the matter, Kogane?  _ Scared? _ "

A hollow point conversation. The framework of the game. The steps to the dance. The words are a mimicry of the motions they've gone through dozens, hundreds, thousands of times before. 

Despite knowing how this ends, Keith feels the spinning trickle of anticipation. A vibration shivering across his skin as he licks his lips. As he watches Lance's hungry eyes follow the movement. 

"I'm not scared." He holds Lance's gaze as he downs the rest of his drink. Feels his smirk as Lance does the same. 

He doesn't resist as Lance tugs him deeper into the club. As they weave through the maze of bodies. As they find a bubble, surrounded by noise and smoke and flashing lights, but somehow feels perfectly alone all the same. As Lance's hands find his hips. As his hands find the front of Lance's jacket. As he seeks out the sweetness of Lance's lips and the bitter bite of whiskey on his tongue. 

A weakness. 

He surrenders to it.

* * *

The concrete ceiling of Lance's apartment has cracks running through the plaster, chipping and splintering in the corners. The air vents hum, rumbling and rattling. The cinder block walls are cold and uninviting, but covered in posters and tapestries and knick knacks, hiding the cold reality of the room.

An apartment that's far better than most in this sector of the city. On a high floor. Large enough to comfortably house him, Pidge, and Hunk. Complete with air filtration and a water heater that's actually reliable. Enough electricity to power their equipment and exploits that Keith only got a brief glimpse of as he and Lance stumbled through the apartment to his room the night before. 

And several nights before that. 

A decent apartment, given that they're still in the lower city. Given that even Lance's top floor apartment barely scrapes the towers. Given that grime is a second layer to the walls, both inside and out. Given that mice scurry in the stairwell and the elevator is a hollow shell. Despite looking nice, everything in the apartment has the quality of looking old. Used. Worn. 

Still, it's better than where Keith lives. A hideout for the Blades, doubling as a poor excuse for a home while they try to carve out a foothold. 

Being a Paladin must be nice. 

He still has a hard time believing that Lance is a Paladin. That he's here. That he's stepped so flawlessly into Keith's world and has built himself up as a force to be reckoned with. A name that people only dare to whisper in the shadows and alleyways, eyes glancing over their shoulders. Rumors of a dangerous man with a glinting smile and a gun that catches the neon lights. 

It's a far cry from the boy he used to know. 

Turning his head, Keith examines Lance's profile. The curtains covering the room's window are thick and dark, blocking out most of the faint, gray daylight and creating a poor replication of the night. Lance is lit by the dull, pulsing glow coming from his intricate computer set up in the corner. A dull blue and green light as the hologram display mimics the slow breath of sleep.

Here, sprawled out and vulnerable, face lax in sleep, hair messy and skin bruised from Keith's lips, body tangled in his threadbare sheets, Lance looks younger. The harsh lines of his face no longer cut. His eyes no longer whisper of a storm. His lips no longer curl into a smirk that cause shivers of dread and excitement in tandem.

Despite age maturing his features, here and now, Keith can see that he's the same boy he knew in the Garrison. 

The same boy who held his hand and forcibly pulled smiles from him. The same boy who spoke of doing good, of changing the world, of becoming a hero. The same boy who wanted to make his family proud. The same boy who lived in a fantasy. The same boy who made Keith want to believe in that fantasy. 

The same boy Keith left, alone and hurt, eyes glassy and lips twisted into a frown to hide his broken heart. 

He's still in there, hidden beneath the Paladin he's become. 

He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong in Keith's world. Keith tried not to drag him down, yet here he is anyway. 

He wants to stay. He wants to reach out to him. To feel the smoothness of his skin beneath his fingertips. To curl up into his side. To bury himself in all Lance has to offer and escape the things that claw and writhe in the back of his mind. 

He wants to stay, and that's all the motivation he needs to leave. 

He slips out of the bed, dressing in the shadows. On silent feet, he slips out of the room. Casting one last look over his shoulder. Feels the ache in his chest. Feels the buzz. The need for another hit. Another taste of that sweetness Lance has to offer. 

He turns, and he leaves. 

* * *

Adrenaline in his veins. The taste of blood on his tongue. An ache in his side. The sting of a cut on his arm. The throb of pain in his ribs. 

His body burns. 

His blood burns.

He is fire, and he can't be controlled.

He crouches low, flipping his knife around in his hand, blade pointed back. Other arm held out. Defensive. Waiting. His eyes flicker around the group. They surround him. One with chains, wrapped around a wrist and spinning. One with a knife, blade wicked and sharp. One with a metal staff, sharp crackle of electricity on the ends. One with a long, jagged looking blade, glowing with energy, blood on it sizzling as it burns.

He knows there are more. He can hear his fellow Blades fighting around him. Hears the grunts and the curses, the firing of shots and the clang of metal. The shouts of pain. 

His breath is harsh in his ears, chest heaving with each inhale. 

The buzzing hum of twin blasters, pitches weaving together in perfect harmony. A warm weight pressing to his back. Broad. Strong. Firm. The smell of wind and ocean and mint. 

"This isn't your fight," he says, voice low and ragged, harsh as his eyes snap from one Galra to another. They keep their distance, but circle them slowly. Sharks in chum filled waters. 

"It is now," Lance says, low voice lilting at the edges, despite the harsh drag of his breath as he pants. 

"This isn't even your territory." The Blades had been steadily carving out a place for themselves. Building a reputation. Taking over the streets. The deals. The clubs. They chose a sector of neutral space between the Paladins' growing territory and that of the Empire. 

The Blades are rising fast, and as such, they expected a little kick. They've been fighting the Empire for years, hitting hard and escaping into the night. This is the first time they're attempting to set down roots. It was bound to flush out the Empire's goons. To test them. To weaken them. To send a message. Get out or be crushed.

Too bad the Blade had no intention of backing down. 

"Caught up in the wrong place, wrong time," Lance says, and Keith can feel the shrug against his back. 

"You wouldn’t have been if you had just stayed away." If he hadn't made a habit of coming to the Renegade. If Keith hadn't made a habit of waiting for him. If they didn't have a habit of finding each other. Again and again. Lance wouldn't have been with him when Keith got called into action. "You could've left."

"And let you get all the action? Don't think so, mullet." 

He glances over his shoulder, caught in a sidelong gaze tilted with a smirk. Confident. Cocky. Self assured as he heaves the twin blasters in his hands. They fit his long fingers perfectly, cradled delicately and with poise. With firm assurance. An extension of him. A piece of who he is. His lip is split, but still he smiles. A cut on his temple, running blood hot down the side of his sharp face.

Keith feels something run through him. Hot and heady. A memory, whispered and faint. A younger Lance. A younger him. Back to back. Lips bloody and eyes bruised. Grins vicious and victorious. 

In those days, their fights were superficial. Fights for the sake of fighting. No real danger. No real stakes. Nothing to lose. They chased the adrenaline together. Broke their bones and bruised their knuckles. Laughed as the thrill wore off and helped each other stumble back to their dorms. 

Now the stakes are high. Their lives on the line. Danger, real and sharp. Yet the thrill is still there. Still the same. The glint in Lance's eyes. Challenging. Daring. Breathtaking. 

Keith feels his lip curl upward. His thumb presses against the scanner on the hilt of his dagger. Feels the flash of warmth as the gem reads his print. He feels the shock of energy run through him as it hums, rattling up his arm, crackling around his hand. Familiar. Comforting. The energy blade extends from the hilt, creating a long, curved blade. Glowing purple. Translucent. Transforming his dagger to a sword. 

"Try to keep up," he says. A challenge. A dare.

His blood feels hot as Lance's eyes darken. Twinkling with excitement as his lips coil into a dangerous smile. "I've got your back, samurai."

"Try not to miss, sharpshooter."

"I never do."

* * *

The lights of the motorway flash by. Advertisements and billboards, holograms long forgotten, run down and crumbling. They blur past, creating a framework tunnel that they barrel through.

Wind ripping through his hair, tugging at his jacket, at his shirt. Threatening to tear him off his bike. He leans forward over it, hands gripping the bars. Goggles protect his eyes, but he squints against the wind anyway. 

He flies his hoverbike low, weaving through the debris and crumbling pillars of the old highway. He hasn't done this in years. He hasn't felt this free in years. 

The roar of another bike as it pulls up next to him. He glances sideways to catch a glimpse of Lance's profile in the neon lights. How they play off his skin. How the wind tears at him. How he throws his head back and howls into the night. How the curve of his grin splits his lips. A flash of teeth. A gleam of eyes catching the glow bordering the motorway.

Then he pulls ahead, racing off ahead of Keith.

Dangerous speeds. Too low to be safe. Too much debris. Too much traffic. They weave through it all. Barely a breath away from the obstacles. Reactions more on instinct than anticipation. 

Adrenaline singing through their veins.

Laughter whispering on the wind, dancing across their skin. 

Keith lets Lance pull ahead. Takes a moment to admire him. Admire the way he holds himself over his seat, leaning forward, a bullet through the wind, daring it to challenge him. He cuts through the night. Wild. Free. Dangerous. 

He's beautiful.

He makes Keith's chest ache.

He carries with him memories that cling to him like a second skin. The taste of what they once had. Of what Keith once had. A happiness that he hasn't felt in a long, long time. A hope. A spark. Something he hadn't realized he'd lost until it was long gone. Something he never thought he'd ever feel again.

Something he thought would only exist in the ghost of his memories.

Until Lance McClain walked back into his life.

Until he got a taste of him again.

A taste of what Keith wants. 

All he's ever wanted. 

He chases it. Chases Lance. Unable to stay away. Unable to turn away. He's addicted. He feels it. A high in his veins. 

He doesn't let Lance get away.

* * *

The members of the Blade don’t say it directly, but Keith knows. He can read between the lines. The subtext. The implications that hide in the shadows of their words. 

They want him to give up.

They want him to move on.

They want him to accept it.

He can't.

He won't.

He doesn't want to.

He has to, but it's hard. 

They haven't heard from Shiro in a long, long time. Leads have gone cold. Rumors have dried up. Whispers have faded to silence. 

The Blades don't think they'll find him. They don't think they can. They think he's beyond saving. Keith can see it in their eyes. In their tight-lipped expressions. In the glances they share. In the way they carefully form their words. In the way they hesitate around him. 

He left everything to find Shiro. He gave up everything. He joined them because they offered the best chance he had. Because he found out his family had connections to them. They accepted him. They helped him. They trained and guided him. He helped them, they helped him. 

But they don't think there's anything to help with anymore.

They think Shiro's gone. 

Keith knows there's logic to their reasoning. He knows it's not baseless. He knows they mean well, but they're realistic. They don't dance around hope. They cut to the point. The point is Shiro has dropped off the radar, and they don't think he'll come back. 

The point is Keith may have to accept that he's gone.

He can't. He won't give up. He  _ can't _ give up. Shiro never gave up on him. A kid from the streets. From the lower city. A kid with potential. Shiro saved him. Shiro raised him higher than he ever thought possible. Shiro gave him a reason to fight. He won't stop fighting for Shiro. 

He can't.

He won't.

But every passing day, he feels the doubts pressing in. He hears the whispers. He knows acceptance is right around the corner, and he doesn't want to face it. If he accepts that Shiro might be gone, he'll stop fighting. 

If he stops fighting, who is he? What else does he have?

He feels it. Creeping beneath his skin. A crawl. A tingle in his fingertips and his toes. His limbs' movements slow and numb. He feels it in the tightness of his chest. Unable to breathe deep. Unable to breathe slow. He feels the twist in his gut. The nausea. The leaden feeling of his body, heavy and sluggish, despite his mind feeling light, drifting, spiraling. 

He finds Lance. Drawn to his warmth. His light. His spark. His  _ hope _ . Everything he is. Everything he represents. His steadfast approach to everything. His laugh, light and challenging to the world. A sharp grin that sees the darkness and creates a spark. A flash. A light. Captures the neon glow around them and makes it his own. His own beacon. One Keith is powerless to resist. 

He feels the breakdown. Feels the beat of it in his veins, his heart, his lungs. He's high on it. Feels like he's floating high, too high, anticipation making him tense, waiting for the drop. Waiting for gravity to grip him and rip him down. 

That's where he finds Lance. Escapes into him. Loses himself in that light. In his smile. In the touch of his large, firm hands. The taste of him on Keith's tongue, sickeningly sweet, bitter on the back edge. 

He can feel it in Lance, too. The frantic desperation. The hunger in his touch. The shadows that hide behind the glow he radiates. He's escaping, too. He's running, too. He's hiding in Keith. They're clinging to each other as the whipping winds of a storm tear at them, claw at them, threaten to drag them away. 

They grip.

They cling.

They anchor each other with bruising fingers and hungry lips. The clash of teeth. They anchor each other in the warmth of touch. Bodies pressed close. Teeth finding lips and skin, sinking in. Marking each other to create a place to hold memories. So come morning, they know it happened. Fingers dig into bruises, old and fading. Scabs torn as their bodies grind and nails drag down backs, arms, legs, chests. 

Kisses exchanged in a fervor. Devouring each other. 

Hands desperate. Refusing to let the other go. Gripping. Bruising. Claiming. 

Seeking solace in each other's warmth.

Lost to panting breaths and sweat soaked sheets. Taste of blood on their tongues from split lips. Hips marked with fingers. 

Lance gets him out of his head, if only for a moment.

Keith fills the space in his bed, if only for the night. 

Both of them high on the beat of a breakdown.

* * *

Keith finds him at Voltron. A club deep within the Paladins' territory. The neon sign above the club depicts large, robot lions. Different colors. Flashing. Bright. Casting different hues off his black hoverbike as he parks it out front. 

He shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. Purple and black. Blade symbol on the back. Hair tied back into a messy ponytail. Pants ripped. Belts and pieces of armor securely in place. Boots high, hiding knives and a few nondescript explosives. 

His usual wear.

Always ready for a fight.

To defend himself. To come to the order of the Blades.

That's not why he's here, though.

The club is like any other. Smoke like haze over the crowd. A high ceiling. A main floor with balconies rising up, several floors of them, overlooking the center. Music pounding. A feeling in his core that he's familiar with. A pulse alongside his heartbeat. A vibration beneath the soles of his boots. 

Lights. Flashing. Colors. Muted voices. Wordless and barely audible over the beat. Bodies moving. Writhing. Swaying. Faceless. The smell of smoke, alcohol, and sweat. 

Familiar. 

He weaves through it all effortlessly. Sliding in the minute gaps between bodies, slipping away before they close. He tilts his head up, up, up. The top balcony. The fifth one. Less crowded than the others. Keith's never been here, but he knows that's where the Paladins will be. 

He finds the stairs. Wide and spiraling. Up and up. Doors leading out to each floor. He ignores them. Moving up. Up. Heart hammering. The music gets fainter, but still vibrates through the foundation of the building. 

At the top there's a metal double door. A couple of bouncers. Dressed in dark colors that look like stains against the walls, devoid of the colors that flash and distract from the grime of the lower city. Armed to the teeth. Strapped down with obvious threat. Built large. Standing firm. 

Keith glares them down. He knows he can take them, but that probably won't go over well. 

He's not here to fight. 

He's here for Lance. 

"Move," he says, words bitten at the edges and dripping with firm authority.

It doesn't work. "Name?"

"I'm here to see Lance."

"Not unless you're on the list, you're not. Name?"

Keith grits his teeth. "Keith Kogane."

The bouncers exchange looks, and then, surprisingly they step aside. One presses his hand to the scanner. It flashes once. Twice. Thrice. And the door clicks, sliding open. Keith tries not to let his surprise show. But he feels it in his chest. Aching. Pounding. Bruising his ribs. Lance put him on the VIP list for Voltron. Lance knew he would come. 

Or he had hoped. 

Finding him is easy. His voice carries. Or maybe he's just attuned to it. He hears it above the others. A laugh that digs claws deep into him, dragging him forward. Powerless to resist. He lounges on a couch. Arms spread over the back of it, feet stretched and crossed at the ankles, resting on the table in front of him. 

This floor is nearly empty compared to the others. Few people wander around. Clustered in small groups. Speaking just loud enough to hear each other. They all stare at him as he passes, but he ignores them. His eyes fixate on Lance. Hunk and Pidge sit on the couch opposite from him. 

Keith steers his course, coming around the back of the couch. Pidge and Hunk see him first. Eyeing him with various degrees of amusement and curiosity. Neither of them look surprised. Hunk tries to hide his grin. Pidge doesn't bother. 

There's a joint rolled between Lance's fingers. Smoke lazily trailing up, adding to the general haze of the club. He moves it to his lips as Keith reaches the back of the couch. Breathes in deep. 

Keith's fingers run through his hair, carding through soft and gentle before digging in, tugging his hair tight. His other hand comes down on his shoulder as he leans over the couch. He tugs Lance's head back, bending over to put his face above Lance's. 

He looks surprised, eyes wide and startled. It only takes him a moment to recognize Keith. For those eyes to go lidded and dark. Keith tilts his head, angling his lips over Lance's. Just barely brushing. A tease of a kiss. His tongue flicks out, running along the seam.

Lance's lips part, smoke coiling lazily out as he exhales.

Keith breathes it in. Sour and bitter. A cutting edge of sweetness, tasting faintly of fruit. Of Lance. He lets it fill his mouth. His lungs. 

His hand slips down into the open v-neck of his shirt, sliding slowly over his defined, broad chest. Fingers spread wide, tips brushing along the ridges of scars that are faded and old, but new to Keith. He  _ feels _ when Lance's breath hitches, beneath his palm and against his lips. 

He drops the short distance. Kissing him full and rough. Exhaling through his nose. Lips moving slowly together, tongue teasing as he pulls away. 

He doesn't go far. Just enough to gaze down at him. Fingers still in his hair. Hand still in his shirt. Lance looks dazed. High on far more than smoke. His tongue lazily trailing along his lips, as if savoring the lingering taste of Keith.

It's getting harder to resist him. To feign indifference. To pretend like he isn't completely and undeniably addicted to him. To Lance McClain. To pretend like he has any sort of say in this anymore.

He's tired of this. 

He's tired of dancing around this.

He's tired of acting like he doesn't want this.

"You weren't at Renegade tonight," he says, voice low and hoarse. Keeping their conversation private. Knowing the pulse of music will keep his words from reaching the others. 

"I'm not there every night." Lance reaches up with his free hand, fingers and knuckles trailing along Keith's skin. His neck. His jaw. His cheek. He leans into it. Lance's eyes sparkle with a smile that teases his lips. "You found me anyway."

He feels the edges of his lips tilt. Just barely. Just enough to see it mirrored with Lance. He pulls away, only to drop himself over the back of the couch. He settles down next to him, legs splayed out over his lap, enjoying the feeling of Lance's hand, warm and heavy on his thigh. Thumb gently rubbing circles. 

They share the joint. They order drinks. Keith lets himself get lost in the haze. In the laughter shared between friends. In the touch of Lance. In the banter with Pidge. In the jokes with Hunk. In the atmosphere. In the moment. 

He lets himself have this moment.

* * *

The cracks in Lance's ceiling are becoming familiar. Keith has them memorized. Tracing them with his eyes as he works up the will to leave. 

It gets harder every time. 

He turns his head, gaze falling on Lance's face, lax with sleep. The curtains are open. Gray daylight spills through the thick glass, chasing away shadows and shining light on the things the night hides. 

He looks young. Far too young for the amount of scars Keith knows are on his body. He looks exhausted, heavy bags beneath his eyes and weariness etched into lines across his features. 

Here, in the light of day that filters through the clouds and smoke and haze above the city, Lance looks vulnerable and fragile. His bruises look sickly against his dark skin. Where he looks sharp and dangerous in the shadows of the night, prowling the streets with the neon glow reflecting off his skin like the gleam of a predator. In the daylight, he looks... like the boy Keith once knew. 

A boy who’d had his dreams shattered and broken, now struggling to carve out a place for himself in the disappointingly bleak reality of their world. A reality they disguise with smoke and lights. Colors to hide the grayscape. Haze to hide the grime and dirt and bruises. 

Keith doesn't want to leave. 

He knows he should. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, working up the will to move. To stand. To leave. He starts to push to his feet when fingers wrap around his wrists, a gentle tug that gets him to sit once more. 

He turns to find Lance's eyes open. Watching him. His lips are pursed into the smallest of frowns. Worry in his eyes. A plea in his touch. 

Vulnerable.

Fragile.

He tugs once more. A silent, gentle question. 

Keith is powerless to resist it. He moves into it. Into him. Crawling back into the bed and burying himself beneath blankets that smell of smoke and sweat and Lance. He curls into his side, an arm draping over his waist as Lance's arms wrap around him. As fingers run through his hair. 

He feels Lance's sigh. 

He heaves one of his own. 

It sounds like relief and feels like acceptance. 

He can't say no to what he finds in Lance. A new drug— no, an old one. He's addicted to him. To the high he makes Keith feel. In the escape he offers. In the way he numbs Keith's pain, eases his mind, and keeps the shadows at bay. 

But he's not just a drug. 

Keith knows when they get up, Lance will insist on making him breakfast. He knows Lance will make him coffee, and it'll be shitty and taste gritty and bitter. As most coffee does in the lower city. He knows Lance will sit next to him, a little too close, knee brushing his thigh. 

Lance is candy. Sweet and addicting. Something he doesn't  _ need _ to survive, but something that makes him happy nonetheless. Something he can live without, but he's not sure he wants to. A taste of something to treat himself to. To let himself enjoy. 

Lance is like a drug. Lance is like candy.

And Keith doesn't want to give it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> __________________
> 
> Go listen to the song! Go go. 
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	3. Track 3: Dirty Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty laundry is piling in his room  
> He's got his secrets, yeah I got mine too
> 
> I don't care about what you did  
> Only care about what we do  
> Dirty laundry  
> Looks good on you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I highly recommend listening to the track and album.
> 
> And as always, stay safe, stay healthy, take care of yourself.
> 
> Happy reading <33

Keith's skin looks like porcelain. 

Hardened and solid, yet cracked and fragile. Pale in the shadows of Lance's apartment. The neon glow from the advertisements outside cast him in sharp relief, outlining every jagged angle, every soft curve, every dip and line of his body. Highlight the skin bright around the darkened marks that Lance had put there.

He stands at the far end of Lance's room, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to the window that takes up a large portion of the wall. Curtains pulled back to cast the whole room into a multi-colored glow. Arms crossed loosely over his chest. Weight shifted to one hip. Face pensive as he stares out into the night. 

His body is bare. Not a stitch of clothing, armor, or weapons on him. Nothing but skin, scarred and marred that somehow still manages to be soft and smooth beneath Lance's fingertips. 

Lance watches him from the bed, stretched out and bare atop the messy sheets, sweat on his skin drying in the chill of the night. He sits propped up against pillows, hands stretched out to either side and resting atop the short headboard like shelf that stretches the length of his bed. 

A rolled joint dangles from between his fingertips, smoke trailing steadily upward. It gathers in the air of his room. Lazy tendrils of gray, swirling and gathered around him. Smelling sickly sweet and edged with bitterness. The dark bite of nicotine with a lacing of a sweet and bitter bite. One of Coran's new mixes. Eases stress. Lightens his mind. Soothes that hungry beast of addiction that rumbles needily in his veins. 

A hit. 

Two.

He watches Keith through the swirling chaos of smoke, not thick enough to hide him but present enough to obscure his form. To make him ethereal. To make him seem like a lifetime away and not simply across the room.

It's not the first time Lance has seen him this way, and he doubts it'll be the last. 

Naked and bare and thoughtful beneath the neon lights. 

So familiar. It's Keith. But it's not.

It's in moments like this where Lance can see the stranger he's become. 

In the lulls between the highs. In the silences between the noise. In the stillness between the action. When they take a moment to slow, to breathe, to reflect in a life that's a constant flurry of motion. Of momentum. Of moving forward without any time to dwell on the past. 

It's in these moments that Lance sees the juxtaposition between the Keith he once knew, and the Keith before him. 

He watches him as the neon advertisements outside flicker between their programming. Blues. Purples. Reds. Greens. Yellows. Oranges. Pinks. They flicker slowly, almost lazily. Some of the colors drifting, creating a motley of a shifting sea on Keith's skin. A porcelain canvas. It lights him up in brilliant colors. It highlights his sharp angles and the edges of his body. It casts shadows stretching across his features. 

It's in moments like this, the fractals of time in between, when Lance can truly see Keith's scars. He's felt them beneath his fingertips and pressed against his palms. He's run his lips and his tongue and his teeth against them. But here and now, in the stillness and the pauses, he's able to see them for what they truly are. 

Scars.

Moments of pain and suffering and decisions that Lance hadn't been there to be a part of. Fractions of Keith that Lance doesn't know. Pieces of him that Lance will only ever know the echoes of. 

And the scars aren't just physical. 

He sees them in Keith's eyes. In the purse of his scowl. In the sharpness of his glare. In the distant gaze. In the bite of his words. In the way his hands always seem to hover near his hidden weapons. In the way he always stands himself apart. In the way his arms are always crossed and defensive. 

Scars. 

Secrets. 

A past Lance doesn't know. Whole years worth of time that separate them. 

Here, in the haze of the sweetly bitter smoke, Lance can see it. He can see where the lines cross. If he stares hard enough, he can pretend Keith's skin is smooth in the glow of the neon blues and greens and purples. Smooth and young. He can pretend the shadows in his eyes are the shadows he's familiar with. Problems that seem small compared to the monsters they carry with them now. 

But then the lights flicker. 

Harsh yellows. Exposing oranges. The bite of red. 

They show the scars. They show the weight on his shoulders and the tension in his jaw. The distance in his eyes. 

Highlighting the distance between them. 

Lance sees them both, through the obscuring haze of smoke. Who he used to be. Who he is now. Two Keiths. Each one he knows. Both are strangers. 

It's in moments like this where he feels like he's seeing things he shouldn't. Where he can see the ghosts and the skeletons that Keith carries with him. Without the shields and walls of his gear, naked and bare, Lance can see the skeletons etched into his flesh. 

It makes his own scars ache. 

Makes him far too aware of the skeletons he keeps piled in his own shadows. 

Makes the distance between them feel like oceans, pushing them away with different tides. 

Makes him feel like he's drowning, lost at sea. 

A breath, stretching aching lungs. 

A hit. 

An exhale. 

Sinking into his sheets. 

Fingers twitching with the need to reach out. To touch. To assure himself that Keith is really here. That he's not a phantom. That he's not just another of Lance's own skeletons. 

"Nice view." Keith's voice slips into the silence, pushing through the fog, dissipating into it until Lance is unsure if he heard anything at all. 

A rush of movement outside. The brief flash of bright headlights shifting across Keith's body, highlighting him in a wave. His sharp features are still pensive. His eyes distant. That scar on his cheek looks darker in harsher white light. He's lost in thought. Much like he used to be. But there's something heavier about it now. 

Lance shrugs, knowing he's not looking but finding comfort in the motion all the same. "Pays to be a Paladin."

Keith shifts. It's subtle. His gaze remains fixed out the window, but there's a turn to his body. A redistribution of his weight. Lance may not have noticed if he hadn't been watching, but it lets him know Keith's attention has shifted. That it's on Lance now. 

"The Garrison had a better view." 

It's simple. An offhanded comment. Flickering over the smoke and twisting into the silence. But Lance hears the weight in the statement. The question hidden in the nonchalance. 

Another breath.

Another hit. 

Lance hums, tilting his head back against the wall. Watches as the smoke leaves his lips. "Maybe, but I like it down here."

"Why?" Not an accusation. A desperate curiosity wrapped up in that blunt deadpan that's a staple in Keith's arsenal. 

Once it might have made Lance bristle. Defensive. Made his hackles rise. 

Now he sees it for what it is. Something that's been nagging at Keith, eating away at him until it explodes out in a harsh hit. He's not one to sugar coat things. To fluff it up. Lance appreciates that about him. Always has. 

"It's easier to see the world when you're in it," Lance says, voice dropped low. Rough and scratched from the harsh cries Keith had pulled from him only an hour before. Rough and scratched from the weight on his own heart. It aches, but it's no longer fresh. The echo of pain. The echo of shame. He's past it, but he remembers. "Easier to change things when you're in the middle of it."

Keith shifts again. His head tilts. The lights change from blue to purple, harsh pinks highlighting the cut of his jawline and the angle of his chin. Wavering blues catch his eyes, darkening them beneath long lashes. His gaze flickers to Lance, staring at him for a long moment before whispering, "Was it worth it?"

Lance meets his gaze steadily, head still tilted back against the wall. The trail of smoke drifts from the joint between his fingers, obscuring the space between them. He stares at Keith through the haze. The play of color and smoke around his porcelain skin. Still hardened and beautiful as he remembers, but chipped and cracked in far more places. 

"Was it for you?" 

The silence stretches. Thick and tight. Lance feels it prickle across his skin. Feels it tighten in his chest and squeeze at his heart. He sees the tension around Keith's eyes and the purse of his lips. He sees the tick of muscle in his temple. 

He sees a million things. 

A million thoughts and memories, emotions and words, all flickering in the dark void of his eyes. The neon lights flash red, harsh and wicked across his bare flesh. He looks like a stranger. He looks dangerous. He looks conflicted and torn. Chewed up and spit out by a world Lance couldn't protect him from. 

He looks beautiful.

Lights flicker to blue. 

A harsh and sharp rapid beeping fills the silence, making them both jump. Snapping the tension in half and letting the atmosphere ooze back into something softer. Something easier. Something more familiar. 

Three beeps. Sharp and quick. A pause. Four more. A pause. Two. 

Keith sighs, pushing off the wall as Lance leans over, stretching an arm out. He snatches the device off the nightstand, right where it sits next to the gloves Keith had cast aside. It's a couple inches wide. A rounded square. Only a few centimeters thick. Smooth on all sides. One flat side is lit up, flashing the purple symbol of the Blades. 

Lance tosses it across the room, and Keith snatches it out of the air with ease. He stops halfway across the room, backlit by the neon glow, silhouetted by the light pollution of the city. He places the device against the back of his left hand, laying overtop pinpoint scars that Lance has only recently noticed. 

Once it's pressed to his skin, he presses his right thumb to the glowing symbol on top. It flashes, and Keith winces as dozens of tiny needles shoot out of the underside to dig into his flesh. 

He lets go, holding out his left hand and shaking it out. Flexing strong hands and curling his slender fingers. The device remains fixed to the back of his hand. 

"Whoa," Lance breathes, sitting back against the headboard, joint forgotten between his fingers. "What the hell...?"

Keith holds his left wrist, still flexing his hand. He glances up, a crooked smile touching his lips. "It's a communicator."

"How?"

He holds up his hand, showing where the little metal square is stuck to the back of his hand, Blade symbol still glowing in the dim lighting of his room. "Requires a fingerprint scan and a blood sample to work. Live blood sample. Body needs to be living for it to unlock."

"Prudent," he says dryly.

Keith's smile is wry. "We have to be." 

"Does it hurt?"

"Like a bitch." He flips his hand over, palm up, fingers lightly curled. He watches, fascinated, as light begins to glow through Keith's palm. The entirety of it lights up, pulsing gently for a moment. It dings once, less harsh than the earlier beeping, and Keith immediately says in a voice that's rigid, serious, and clear, "Keith Kogane."

It dings again, and a hologram is shot up from the light coming from his palm. It displays a floating orb, slowly turning. As a voice radiates from it, jagged lines dance to the cadence of it. " _Blades. Three days. Twenty-three hundred. Galra moving a shipment of quint through Blade territory. Seize the product. Take care of the handlers. Quint must be delivered to the Paladins for examination and decomposition, as per our alliance agreement. Individual position coordinates will be delivered tomorrow at twenty-one hours."_

The hologram flickers out immediately, glow on Keith's palm fading. Once the message is over, he turns his hand over, blunt nails digging beneath the small metal plate to peel it off his skin. Lance can see the way he winces, jaw clenched and lip curling. 

He catches a glimpse of the needles in the harsh yellow neon glow before they retract and Keith tosses it once more to the nightstand. 

"Another Galra quint run?" 

Keith stalks forward, ignoring the beading of ruby drops on the back of his hand. The light flickers to purple, making the dots look black against his porcelain skin. He presses a knee to the bed, leaning forward until his palms hit the mattress. "The Empire is getting bolder."

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, the preening beast of pride uncurling in his chest. "We've been squeezing their supply runs pretty hard. We know their routes. They're looking for new ones."

Keith hums, crawling across the bed toward him. Slow and methodical. The play of his shoulder blades on his back. The graceful movement of each arm reaching out. The drag of his knees. The lidded eyes, irises dark pools. Voice dipping low. "They won't get past us."

"I know." Lance reaches out as he nears, fingers dipping into the inky strands of his hair, pushed back with sweat and grease and grime. His knuckles tighten, holding his hair at the back of his head as Keith settles on his lap, thighs straddling his hips. "The sooner we can get them to give up their quint business, the better."

Keith smirks, small and predatory, as he settles on Lance's lap. Head tilted as Lance's fingers tighten in his hair. Willfully lifting his chin to expose his neck, mottled with bruises and bites of Lance's teeth. But it's not submission. Far from it. It looks like a challenge. 

His hands slide up Lance's bare chest, nails dragging and fingers rough. "So the whole city will have to come to the Paladins for quint." It's easy, light and playful. Dark undertones of his voice thinly veil a hunger that has nothing to do with the conversation. 

Lance scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Have you _tried_ the Empire's product? The city will _thank_ us." 

Keith rolls his hips forward. Nice and slow. A steady grind. Languid and unhurried. His gaze flicks over Lance's face, taking in the way he gasps. The way his lips part. The way his chin tilts. The way his eyes go lidded. He can feel Keith watching him. Doesn't mind putting on the show. 

His hand releases his hair, sliding down to rest on his hip, fingers digging in to encourage the momentum. Keith reaches out, fingers trailing down Lance's arm before plucking the forgotten joint from him. He puts it to pretty plump lips, still red from earlier. 

Breathes.

Takes the hit. 

Eyes close as he exhales.

Smoke drifting between his lips. 

The slow grind of his hips. 

"I have, actually. It's terrible. Worst trip of my life."

"You should try our quint. It's cleaner. A better high. Pidge and Allura designed it.”

Keith leans forward. One hand on Lance's shoulder, joint between his fingers. One hand on the wall behind Lance's head. He tilts his back, lifting his chin. Keith tilts his, too. Trails his lips along Lance's cheekbone. Dipping down to run the tip of his nose along Lance's jaw. Presses a soft kiss to the hollow below his ear. 

Lance's hips stutter, jerking up into Keith's. The soft sound he makes is loud in the muted silence of his room. Shivers run down Lance's spine. Both hands move to his hips. Holding tight. To encourage. To ground himself. He spreads his own legs wider, forcing Keith's further apart. 

Keith's back arches into the slow grind of his hips. He leans back far enough to meet Lance's lidded gaze. His own eyes are dark. The curl of his lips is deadly. Teasing. Hungry. "Doing quint now, too? You've fallen far, McClain."

Curl of his lips. Flash of teeth. Roughly pulling Keith forward until he's pressed to his chest. Until their noses brush, soft pants of their breaths mingle, and lips hover close enough to feel. "Since when have you ever shied away from things that are bad for you?" Voice low and rumbling in his throat. 

He _feels_ Keith's body shudder. 

_Feels_ when Keith licks his lips. 

_Feels_ the sharp jerk of his hips as the pace picks up.

_Feels_ the words on his lips when Keith says, "You've never been bad for me."

Heart hammering. Blood singing. Heat rising hot and fast. Lance smiles against his lips, feeling his own hunger soften to something that flutters in his chest. "You're going soft."

Fingers curl into his hair, fisting tight and stinging. Forcing his head back so Keith can hover over him. Smirk predatory but eyes still soft. Fond. Making Lance's stomach flip. "Can't have that," he says. 

A challenge.

A dare.

A tease.

He kisses Lance with the sweet bite of smoke on his tongue.

* * *

Here's some honesty. 

Sometimes he still trips over Keith's history.

A world and a life he doesn't know. Scars that make him unfamiliar. Memories he doesn't share. An unknown that feels too taboo to speak of but acts as a chasm between them. Keeping them apart. And no matter how hard he holds on, no matter how close their skin is, no matter how much he digs into him in their moments of privacy and intimacy, Lance feels like he's always being held at arm’s length. 

Even when Keith clings to him, he's holding him away. 

He can't help but feel like if the ghosts were brought to light, if they laid their cards on the table, they'd grow closer for it. 

But there are things they avoid speaking of. Words that get caught in his throat. Trapped by Keith's pursed lips. Their pasts, shared and separate. Skeletons filling up their closets. Closets they're afraid to open. Afraid to see what spills out. 

So they dance around it. 

Around each other.

He sees the image of a Keith he doesn't quite know overlapping the one he thought he did. Sometimes they line up. Sometimes the lines blur.

He tries to ignore it. Ignore the tension and the space between them. But it's the things he shouldn't see that always catch his eye. 

* * *

He told Keith to shoot him a message when the job was done, but his communicator is getting nothing but radio silence. He half expected Keith to be one of the Blades who delivered the confiscated Galra quint to the meet up point, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

It's probably fine.

He's fine.

Still, the tight feeling in his gut is nauseating. He hates waiting. Hates this kind of anticipation. It's not butterflies. It's hornets. 

He breaks down and sends a message first. Just a simple _where are you?_

It takes three minutes and twenty-seven seconds to get a response. He knows because he counts it in the bounce of his knee as he lounges across one of the couches on the fifth level of Voltron. Counts in the tap of his finger against the worn imitation leather. 

When he gets a response, there are no words. It's just coordinates. 

Pidge, Hunk, and Allura don't question him as he gets up to leave, lips pursed into a thin line and eyes tight with a worry he'll never admit to. They know it has to do with Keith. It always has to do with Keith these days. 

The air outside the club is crisp, but no less hazy. The club is hot and humid, smelling of sweet smoke and stale sweat. Outside smells of asphalt, exhaust, and the smokey haze that clings to the city. Still, there's a crispness to the air that's refreshing. A chill that makes him pull his jacket tighter, shove his hands in his pockets. He tucks his chin, pulling up the skin tight mask that hangs around his neck up to cover the lower half of his face. 

Blocks out some of the smoke. Keeps out some of the chill. 

He swings a leg over his bike, running his hands lovingly over the scratched metal before starting the engine with his ring. As it lifts into the air, hovering as the engines hum, he pulls his goggles down over his eyes, entering the coordinates and waiting as a virtual map appears across the lenses. Translucent and bright blue, showing him a route in a thin overlapping layer to reality. 

Worn gloves feel familiar against the handlebars. Fingers exposed to the chill. There's a heaviness in the air. A cold humidity. Not the stickiness of the club, but something more natural. It brings with it the smell of pre-rain. There's a rumble far away, a deep bass note that hums beneath the noise of the city. 

He takes off down the street, rising into the air sharply to join the air traffic. The wind rips at his jacket, snapping it out behind him. He leans forward, pushing the speed, following the directions on his goggle lenses. 

His heart hammers, and he can't tell if the anticipation is butterflies or hornets. 

* * *

He finds Keith at the coordinates. Exactly where he said he'd be. Much higher than Lance anticipated. At first he thought maybe Keith was inside the building, but that's only a momentary thought. He knows Keith well enough to know exactly where he is. 

He rides his bike high, spotting Keith down below. He's perched on the ledge of a building. One that rises fairly high. Just to the cusp of the lower city. Tip of it skimming the limbo between. Looking over the grim life below and the embellished life above. 

He parks his bike next to Keith's, on a wider platform beneath his actual perch. 

It's not a tough climb. The building is older than those around them. It doesn't have the newer, sleeker designs. The ones that look seamless on the outside with rigid edges. It's from the age before, when architecture attempted a revitalization of older styles to preserve culture. As such, it has intricate details and stonework. It gives him plenty of handholds and footholds as he hoists himself up to where Keith has perched himself. 

It's a wide lip of a ledge, decorative and intricate. Filling the space where the building's floor gets smaller moving upward. There are even a couple of gargoyles along the path. Made of synthetic materials rather than stone, designed in reminiscence of old ways. Texture looking eerie where it refracts the neon lights, casting long shadows along twisted bodies. 

Keith sits between them. One leg dangling off the edge. Other foot perched on it, knee up, arms wrapped around it. He hunches forward, chin resting on his arms, eyes lidded and distant as he gazes out over the lower city. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance, but the flash of lightning is lost to the haze and light pollution. 

Lance settles next to him. Close enough that their thighs and hips touch. He plants his hands behind him, leaning back as he mirrors Keith's position: one leg dangling and the other foot perched on the edge, knee in the air. 

He says nothing. Simply waits. He knows that look on Keith. That contemplative silence. He hasn't even looked at Lance since he showed up, and that's how he knows whatever it is, it's eating at him. 

Keith isn't great with his words. Even worse with his emotions. Pretty terrible at expressing himself in general. Lance has gotten pretty good at reading him though. Habits from their time at the Garrison. Good to know Keith hasn't changed too much. 

So Lance gives him time. Lets him gather his thoughts. Lets him figure out his words. If Keith wanted to be alone, he wouldn't have sent his coordinates. If he wanted Lance to fill the silence, he would've acknowledged him. So Lance waits. 

Pulls out a cig. Lights it up. Breathes deep and exhales the smoke into the haze. Watches it catch reflections of the nearby advertisements. 

He lets his eyes roam the space in between the upper and lower cities. The rush of cars, ships, and bikes. The towering buildings cutting through the fog. The lights blinking everywhere in between. 

Night is more beautiful than the day. In the day, the sun casts a reddish orange light upon their little pocket of chaos. Harsh and hot. Bringing a light to their misery and casting the world in sickly relief. Makes the advertisements pale. Makes the dirt and grime darker. Makes the haze look like the pollution that it is. 

Night lights up. Hides things in the shadows. Haze like smoke, swirling around them, keeping the hidden things hidden. Neon lights brightening the sharp edges and hiding the vulnerabilities. 

More colors at night. 

Blues, purples, reds, greens, yellows, oranges. 

He passes the cig to Keith, who takes it wordlessly, putting it to his lips and closing his eyes as he breathes in. He holds it. Opens his eyes at the long exhale. His entire body slumps. Arm resting on his knee, hand hanging over open hair with the cig resting between fingers. 

"Was it worth it?" His voice is quiet. Drifting into the air with the smoke. Dissipating into the haze. Lance watches the play of neon lights off his features. The sharp cheekbones. The sharp chin. The soft curve of his nose. The dark line of his scar. 

Furrowed brows. The tick in his jaw. The lines around his dark eyes. The tight purse of his lips. 

He takes the cig back, dexterous fingers plucking it from delicate fingers. He tastes the sweet ash on his tongue and the bitter burn at the back of his throat. Inhale. Exhale. "Was what worth it?"

“Leaving the Garrison. All of—” He waves a hand around, frown deepening, scowl etched into familiar grooves on his features. " _This_."

Lance looks out over the city, dangling foot swinging idly. He takes in the city below him. Obscured behind a curtain of fog. The speed of vehicles. The mass of bodies. The flash of lights. The hum of engines. The buzz of electricity. The screams. The shouts. The laughter. The pounding of bass from several clubs, music all obscured into a vague backbeat. 

He looks up. To the upper city. It's not much quieter. Not much darker. No less obscured. Perhaps more so. The people there are just shinier. Less covered in grime. Their armor is fancy dress and their weapons are words. Money. The jewels that hide their secrets. That build them up to be more than they are. 

Lance hums, head swaying from side to side and fingers idly tapping the concrete as he thinks. "My family's better off. I get more money to them. They get their medications. They have a home that has clear water, constant energy, and actually fits all of them. They're protected."

A pause. A breathe. A hit. He passes the cig to Keith, who takes a greedy breath. Lets it dangle between his lips when he's done. Lance stares at the curve of those lips. At the fresh cut on the flesh of the bottom one. At the peek of teeth. At the cute curve of his cupid's bow.

He wonders what new bruises he got from the job tonight. 

He wonders if Keith will let him run his lips over them in a vain attempt to wipe away the pain. 

"We're fighting the Empire's stranglehold on the city. Actually controlling the streets. The crime rate has gone down, and the Garrison is losing their coin from the Galra. Tweakers are gonna find their drugs one way or another. We're providing them cleaner drugs. Making sure the shit on the streets is as safe as it can be. We're making more of a difference than we ever did in the Garrison. At least we're not in the pocket of the rich."

He tilts his head, eyes sliding to Keith's face, profile lit up by the neon lights. Smoke dancing around his features, trailing from his lips. He looks like he belongs here. High in the sky. Between worlds. Among old architecture and new lights. Among the gargoyles. 

He's beautiful. Statuesque. A diamond in the rough of the lower city. He shines brighter in the neon lights than in the red glow of the sun. 

He belongs among the stars. 

"And I found you again." He says it softly. Gently. Far more tenderly than he meant to. Keith looks at him then. A tilt of his head. Irises dark in the corners of his eyes. Lance quirks a smile. Cocky. Soft. Intimate. "So I'd say it was worth it. What about you?"

Keith huffs, looking away. He takes the cig from his lips, letting it dangle in his fingers. "I don't know." Frustration leaks into his voice, rough and harsh. "I left everything— the Garrison— _you—_ I left to find Shiro, and I haven't gotten anywhere. The closer I get, the farther away I feel.” 

He runs his fingers through his hair, windblown and messy, gripping the strands and pulling. He grits his teeth, letting out a shuddering breath. His posture goes from tense to crestfallen with that exhale. 

"I've done a lot of shit," he says softly, voice small and broken. "I've done so much. Fucked up a lot of shit. Hurt a lot of people. Lost so fucking much. And for what? I'm chasing rumors. I don't even know if he's still out there. I'm chasing a fucking ghost and leaving behind a trail of—" His fists clench. He presses one to his eye. Body tense. He breathes in, shoulders shaking, letting it out with a frustrated, " _Shit_." 

Lance takes the cig from him, wraps an arm around his shoulders to pull him to his side. Keith doesn't fight it. Melts into his side easily. Rests his head on his shoulder. But he's still tense. He's still shaking. His fists are clenched tight, knuckles white. "Keith—"

"I don't deserve this. Not after everything I've done— Not after what I did to _you_. I don't deserve a second chance. I don't—" 

Lance shifts then, cutting him off as he pulls away. He stands, stepping back from the ledge. He takes in one last hit before dropping the cig to the concrete. Crushing it beneath his heel. He holds a hand out to Keith, smiling at his bewildered expression. 

Eyes red rimmed. Hair wild. There's a bruise on his jaw Lance hadn't seen before. Scratch marks down his throat, red and nasty. The cut on his lip is swollen. He stares at Lance's hand, eyes trailing up to his. 

"Come on," Lance says, smoke slipping out from between his lips. 

He frowns. Not mad, but confused. "Where are we going?"

"Do you trust me?"

The answer is immediate, tension leaking out of him. "Yes."

"Then come on."

* * *

When the engines of their bikes cut, they're left in silence. 

Oppressive.

Comforting. 

"You still come here?" Keith asks. Bewilderment. Bemusement. A fondness he can't hide wrapped up in an innocent curiosity. 

Lance glances over his shoulder, walking toward the edge of the bridge. He smiles, teeth glinting in the moonlight. "I never stopped. 

His smile fades, sounding breathless as he says, "Really?"

Lance shrugs, dropping down to sit on the ledge of the bridge, feet dangling out over the ocean, where waves crash far beneath them, casting sea spray up into the air. He leans back on his hands, feeling the bite of loose rocks beneath the worn leather of his gloves. 

The air is cleaner here. Colder now that they're outside of the city. In the open. Away from the hum of electricity and the generation of energy. The wind rolls off the bay, salty and humid. Sticks to his skin in a way that's pleasant. That feels cleansing. 

Keith drops down next to him, sitting close enough that their thighs and hips press together. He leans forward, resting elbows on his knees, hand dangling between them. He stares out over the bay. Over the inky black waters reflecting the moon and swallowing the stars. 

This far from the city. Far from the noise and the light. He feels more vulnerable. More exposed. More raw. His core open to the cold of the night. 

But with Keith, he feels safe. He feels content. 

It's something he hasn't felt in a long, long time. 

"I would've thought you'd stop coming out here after I left," Keith mutters, wry and guilty and bluntly honest. 

Lance hums, tilting his head back to gaze at the stars. It's not a cloudless night. Far from it. But he can still see the glitter dots in the gaps between the rolling clouds. It's more than he can see in the city. "I guess part of me always hoped you'd come back. Maybe part of me knew." 

Keith sighs, and there's so much in that simple breath.

Exasperated. 

Frustrated.

Guilty. 

Exhausted.

"I missed this place." He leans back on his hands, tilting his head back. "I missed you." 

Lance shifts his hand. His fingers overlap Keith's. Twine them together. Leather of their gloves warm and fingertips cold. "I don't believe in saints," he says thoughtfully. He can see Keith tilt his head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes on the clouds, looking for a glimpse of the stars. "I used to, but not anymore. Saints don't make mistakes, but making mistakes is part of being human. Everyone fucks up. No one is perfect. I mean, fuck, dude. You've fucked up, but so have I. Who the fuck would I be to tell you to change?" 

He tilts his head then. Rolls it to the side to shift his gaze to Keith's. Loves the way his profile is outlined in the distant light of the city and the monochromatic light of the moon. He holds Keith's eyes. Loses himself in them. 

Then the clouds open up, and the pinpoint lights get captured in his irises, and suddenly Lance is lost in the stars. 

Nobody's perfect. Lance learned that the hard way. They like to pretend to be. Build themselves up to be righteous. Just. Beautiful. Generous. They hide their imperfections behind facades.

But Keith? He's perfect enough without ever dressing himself up. 

"I don't care about what you did." His voice is low, nearly lost in the crash of waves below. He rubs his thumb over Keith's knuckles. Hooks his ankle over Keith's where they dangle over the edge of the crumbling bridge. "I only care about us. About what we do from here on out."

Keith isn't who he used to be. He's not the boy Lance remembers. But he's still Keith. He's a Keith with fractals of the old and pieces of the new. He's a Keith that Lance wants to know. With a history he wants to learn. With a future he wants to be a part of. 

His smile is small, but he feels it in his chest. Genuine and warm and making him feel far too full. He leans his shoulder into Keith's. The night is cold, but he's warm. "Everyone has dirty laundry, but yours looks good on you." 

Thunder rumbles in the distance, louder in the silence. 

Lightning flashes on the horizon, brighter without the pollution. 

The clouds cover the moon and block out the stars. 

When the rain starts to fall, it's cold. Soaks into his clothes and chills him down to the bone.

But it feels clean. 

Feels cleansing. 

Feels refreshing and new. 

His chest is full of warmth and Keith's lips are a spark of heat in the cold night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> __________________
> 
> Go listen to the song! Go go. 
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
> **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	4. Track 4: Good Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We were bare-knuckled, tight lip  
> Middle fingers up, ego trip  
> Devil may care but we didn't mind  
> I won't forget the good times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, "Good Times" and "Afterglow" are my favorite tracks on the album. They're also my favorite chapters. 
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe. As always, I highly recommend looking up the album and listening to the music (and thinking about the chapters while you listen to it, I want you in this emotional hell with me lol)
> 
> Happy reading <33

The outskirts of the city is a world of its own. Pockets and clusters of crumbling buildings. Residences and homes that have fallen into disarray with time. Away from the buzzing activity of the city's core. Quieter, but by no means silent. Less crowded, but by no means abandoned. 

Those who were run out of the city proper. Those who couldn't afford it. Those who sought the peace of a remote location but still craved the safety of being near a city. Those who sought refuge, either from the wastes or the city itself. 

The city dwellers see it as living in squalor. As a lesser means of living. More dangerous. Filthy. Those who’re addicted to the rush of city life and hypnotized by the neon lights, high on the fumes and accustomed to the haze of pollution obscuring their faults. 

Keith, however, finds something peaceful about the slums. It's populated, but the people are shier, warier, stick to the shadows rather than live in the glow of the lights. It's no less dangerous than the city, but the danger is shifted. The danger is subtle. Danger in the outskirts is a knife in your back, while in the city it's a punch to the face or a blaster in the chest. 

The city is addicting, fast paced and unforgiving, but there's a charm to the slums. 

He feels like he can breathe here. That he can slow down and admire the world. The beat of his heart and the crispness of rain in the night. This far out, he can nearly taste the salt of the bay. 

It's darker here. Fewer advertisements. Fewer billboards and signs. Those that remain standing flicker, the constant buzz interrupted with the crackle and pop of faulty wiring. The shadows are longer and thicker. The air isn't as saturated with noise. With the hum of electricity. The rumble of generators. The growl of engines. The din of advertisement chatter. The tide of conversation. 

Here in the northern outskirts, the pollution is thinner. They're farther from the plants and factories to the southwest of the city. 

The haze isn't as thick in the air. The lights aren't as bright. 

So when he tips back his head and stares up at the night sky, he can see the pinpoint lights of the stars. 

It's a rare cloudless night. It's the only reason they're out this far. His bag is slung over his shoulder, strap tight to his chest. The weight of his holoball is familiar and comforting where the bag hangs on his back. 

It's an old thing. Heavy and larger than modern ones. A ball with one flat side. A button on top. Pressing it sends up a hologram of the night sky around them, illuminating and labeling old world constellations. 

Memories of his father showing him how to use it, how to find the stars, telling him stories that go along with the shapes in the night sky, on the rare cloudless nights. They bleed into his desire to share the same moments with Lance, to show him, to teach him, to see his favorite constellations reflected in Lance's eyes. 

"So you lived out here, huh?" 

He lowers his gaze. Finding where Lance walks along a fault line risen out of the old concrete street. His balance is impressive. He barely wavers as his boots take step after step, arms held out as he walks along the risen edge of crumbling asphalt. 

"Yeah," he says, breath fogging up in the night air. Something that's not visible when they're in the thick of the city. "Grew up out here with my dad. Before he died and I had to move into the city to survive."

"And that's where Shiro found you." It's not a question, even though it's said as one. Lance knows his story. His history. Knows it all in fragmented pieces that he occasionally snaps together. "When he brought you to the Garrison."

"I stole his car." Keith's lips curve at the memory. Something soft and precious, preserved as a dying ember of a time when things felt right. "It was Garrison tech, too. He wasn't mad, though. He was impressed. Took me in to help me straighten up my act. Clearly didn't work."

Because he's back here now. Back on the lower streets. No longer homeless or starving. He's powerful. Part of an influential gang. Has the money. Has the strength to back up his bite. 

It's different, but in a way, it's all the same. This is where he would've been without Shiro taking him in. It's where he ended up anyway. Life keeps on kicking.

Except now he has Lance. Lance, who he thought he'd leave in the high city. Lance, who was always aiming to be the next Garrison poster boy. Lance, who would've made an amazing role model. Lance, who could've done good where he was. 

Lance, who followed him down to the slums. Who carved out a life in the lower city and owns it with all his might. Lance, who never lost that cocky flavor of confidence that Keith finds so addicting. 

Lance, who lives in his world now, and somehow still manages to shine like the gem he is. 

It's all the same, but it's different now. _He's_ different. _Lance_ is different. Their cores are the same, but their shells, hardened and chipped, are reformed. An echo of who they were. Shiny and new. 

He doesn't know if it's all been for the best, but there's nothing he can do to change it now. What matters is they're still kicking. They're fighting for what they believe. They're doing good, he thinks. 

They're finding a spark of warmth and carving out their own happiness in a world determined to take that from them.

The late night air is cold and crisp. The lingering warmth of the day lost completely. The flow from the moon is a soft silver that illuminates the sharp angles of Lance's features. It catches and stretches the shadows of his nose, his jaw, his cheeks. It illuminates his clothes, long coat trailing behind him and armor plating on his chest. His elbows. His knees. A gun glints at his hip, but Keith knows it's not the only one. 

They left their bikes a while back, safely stashed in a Blade hideout. Keith had insisted, said it was more peaceful this way. Lance hadn't argued. 

The flickering lights temporarily cast Lance’s dark skin in colors. 

Red. Blue. Purple. Yellow. Orange. 

Each one illuminates a different feature. A different side of him. Passion. Soft curves. Laughter lines. Fury. Strength. 

He's beautiful. Radiating confidence and danger. 

It reminds Keith of the Lance he used to know. The one he first met. When they were both young, naive, and reckless. He's filled out now. Come into his own. Has the ability to back up the attitude. Has a confidence rooted in certainty rather than the shaky foundation of a bluff. Has the width in his shoulders and the strength in his arms. A sturdiness in his thighs and a lift in his sharp chin. 

His wicked grin is the same as it once was. Still sends shivers down Keith's spine and ignites something hot and heavy in his gut. But it's sharper now. Dangerous. Assured. 

"I'm glad he found you." The delivery is off-handed, but the sentiment is not.

Keith's gaze trails back to the stars. "Me, too."

"You know, where I grew up, we always thought the outskirts was a dead place. Quiet and boring and full of suspicious people more willing to stab you in the back than offer you a meal when you couldn't afford it yourself."

Keith snorts, smile coiling into something cynical. "It is."

"Nah, man. I've been out here before. Paladin business and all that. This place?" He spreads his arms out wide, turning in a slow circle. He never once loses his balance along the fault line. "This place is _alive_."

Keith lifts an eyebrow, pointedly looking around. Not a soul in sight. He's not foolish enough to believe they're alone, but there's no one in the open. No one to be seen. "Seems pretty dead to me."

“Oh, yeah?” Lance's grin is wicked and sharp, his eyes dancing playfully in the flickering lights. "Watch this."

Then he throws back his head and _howls_. A loud sound. Coming from deep within him. Bellowing from his chest and past his lips. Primitive. Carefree and _wild_. Quintessentially _human_. Bubbling and enthusiastic and a cry into the night. 

It echoes around them, filling the silence and disappearing into the night. 

He watches, but Lance's doesn't look at him. He simply gazes around them. Waiting... waiting... waiting…

And then the answering call. Echoing from far away. Wild and loud. The another. Closer, but out of sight. 

And another.

Another.

Another.

Wordless cries. Howls into the night. Whoops of delight and wordless cheers. People separated, but coming together. Connected while apart. 

In the face of Lance's smug grin, eyes sparkling with joy, Keith throws his head back and _laughs_. 

The night is _alive_ , and it feels _right_.

Lance holds out his hand, and Keith takes it. They walk along the fault line together. Hand in hand. Balance precarious and wavering as they laugh together. 

He's not sure to which side they'll fall.

* * *

They see the fight start long before it breaks out. Perched up on one of the higher floors of Voltron, leaning on the railing of the exclusive balcony to gaze at the club below. Lost in the pounding base and the fleeting melody. Feeling it pulse through them. Feeling it echo in their bones. 

His chest feels full with it. His body sways, helpless to the beat. His lungs are filled with the smoke and the haze. Eyes dazed with the flashing lights in the club, flickering with the driving beat. His head feels light. Light with drink. Light with smoke. Light with the dizzying, brimming affection for the man next to him.

Lance provides a high of his own. A sweetness that curbs the bitterness that constantly lingers on his tongue.

His drug. His candy.

Lance spies it first. For as lost as he seems in the music, swaying and humming under his breath. Pressed against Keith's side with an arm draped over his shoulders. A joint hanging limply between his fingers. Despite it all, his eyes are sharp. His gaze unyielding. He's relaxed here. In Paladin territory. In Voltron. 

But his caution never wavers, and he's as observant as ever.

He nudges Keith, nodding down to the floor when he catches his attention. Keith follows his gesture, spying the action brewing. Even from their high perch, he can see the tension. See the way the two groups regard each other. The way they shove. The way they stand. The way they posture. 

Even from this distance, Keith can see that they're young. No markings or symbols to designate a gang. Not that any gang worth their salt would show themselves in the headquarters of the Paladins. Not without an alliance, like the Blades. 

Young kids. Street kids. No doubt trying to build some rep. Trying to earn some respect. Two groups. Friends or allies, he doesn't know. Some loosely bound code of honor that keeps them tied tight when they have nothing else to cling to. Who knows where the fight began. An insult. A brewing rivalry. Territory. A job gone south. A bad mood. 

They watch as things escalate. As the dancers are pushed to the side. As words are lost to the music but voices can be heard over the pounding beat. Shoving. Posturing. No weapons drawn. They're not that stupid. 

They're escorted out by Allura's security team before the first punch is thrown. 

Lance drops his arm from around his shoulder, taking his hand instead and pulling him away from the railing. "Come on. Let's go watch the show."

They move through the lounge area, away from the roar of the music and the flash of the lights. The beat, however, remains. A constant and thrumming drive. The pulse of the club. 

Lance lightly pats the heel of his hand on Hunk's head as they pass where he's sprawled out on a couch, careful to keep his joint away from the man's hair. "We gotta punk fight outside."

Hunk blinks up at them, eyes glassy and focus hazy. "Same kids again?"

There's a girl on the couch next to him. A big girl. Built big and sculpted strong. Curled into Hunk's side like she's no more than a kitten. Face flushed, eyes glassy, focus takes a moment to reach them. "A punk fight?"

Lance spins on his heel to walk backwards. Momentum never slowing but attention on the couches they leave behind. "Two groups of local punks getting into scraps like they're hot shit."

She blinks, slow and lethargic, before looking up at Hunk. "Does that happen often?"

He shrugs, already pushing off the couch and pulling her to her feet. They both waver, giggles escaping them. "Oh yeah. Gotta build up your rep quick down here. They think picking fights outside Voltron will help that."

"Pidge!" Lance shouts, spinning back around to guide Keith through the lounge. "Baby fight!"

From somewhere Keith hears the excited echo, " _Baby fight! Baby fight!"_

Lance pulls him out onto an outside balcony. Just below the usual line of hover traffic, but high above the street. They line up along the railing, leaning their arms against it as they gaze at the crowd gathering below. 

Punks, as Lance had called them. Too old to be kids. Too young to know better. Picking fights just because they can. To gain rep. To gain respect. Trying to carve out a hole for themselves in this shitty city life. Carving it out with fists and clenched teeth. 

It's where Keith would've been if Shiro hadn't found him.

It's where Lance would've been if his family hadn't starved themselves for several months to get the money to send him to the Garrison. 

They watch the first punch thrown, and it's chaos after that. Two groups collide. Punks. Street kids. No knives. No guns. Just bare fists and bloodied knuckles. Tooth and nail. 

A crowd forms around them. Not so much interested in the kids but in the spectacle. In a moment of fierce brutality. One that they don't want to participate in, but wish to experience through the eyes of others. 

They cheer from above. Lance hollers at them, trying to give them pointers as best he can. Hunk makes pained sounds when sickening hits land. Pidge cackles loudly, egging them on with pointed remarks. Allura takes bets, creating a pool and collecting the credits. 

Their balcony becomes crowded. 

Joints and glasses are passed around. 

He wraps an arm around Lance's waist, unable to help the tug at his lips when Lance leans into his side. Melts against him. Uses him as an anchor. 

His gaze drifts from the fight below to the people on the balcony. 

His friends. 

_Friends_.

Old and new. They laugh and grin, manic and sharp, teeth glinting in the neon lights. Eyes glassy and world spinning. But they laugh. They laugh and laugh and laugh. Neither cruel, nor merciless. Genuine. A joy found in good company. A joy found in loyalty. A joy that stems from the bubbling relief of peace founded in trust. 

Being with the Paladins is different from being with the Blades. 

The Blades are trustworthy and loyal, but more to the cause than the individual. Hardened. Gruff. Closed off and polished from years of weathering hardships. 

The Paladins still have their sharp edges. Hardened, yes. But the pointed edges protect what lies beneath. A softness unafraid to come to light. A vulnerability. A companionship and camaraderie. A need for _more_. A desire to _be_ more. A desire to _do_ more. 

It's a strength. It fuels their fire. He's seen it in Lance's eyes. In Hunk's. In Pidge's. In Allura's. 

They're everything the Blades are, but _more_. 

More because they know how to laugh. And here, on this balcony, they laugh. High on the joy of _life_. Of being _alive_. The thrill that stems from the terrifying reality of survival. But they're alive. They're alive, and they're finding a reason in each other to be _happy_.

They laugh until they cry. Until tears form in their eyes and streak down their cheeks. Wiped away with tender touches and lost in smiles. 

Keith files the memory away for later. For when things inevitably come crashing down. For when the night is cold, and he needs a reminder that good things exist. 

He won't forget the good times.

* * *

He never wants to leave this sunset city. Not again. 

When he left the first time, he thought he would have nothing to come back to. He never imagined that he'd gain more than he had before. He never let himself believe Lance could be his again. That he'd make friends as good as Hunk, Pidge, and Allura. 

He never thought he'd be happy like this. That he'd experience joy again. That he'd feel the honest peace of contentment. That the taste of Lance's lips and the touch of his skin would be anything more than an echo in his memory. 

He doesn't want to leave, but he knows the time may come. 

Shiro is still out there. He refuses to believe any different. Refuses to believe any other reality. Shiro is out there, and Shiro needs him. He never gave up on Keith, and Keith isn't giving up on him. He can't. He won't. 

He doesn't want to leave, but the time will come. 

He doesn't know what will happen then. If what he's built here will be strong enough to withstand, or if it'll shatter all over again. He doesn't know if the home he's building will still be standing, or if it'll burn to the ground. 

He doesn't know if Lance will wait for him a second time.

He doesn't want to leave, but at some point, he'll have to.

He'll hate the goodbyes. They'll rip his heart out and leave a pulsing hole in his chest. But he'll do it because he has to. For Shiro. For himself. 

He doesn't want to leave, and he doesn't have to yet. 

Not yet. Not just yet. 

For now, he'll enjoy things as they are. He'll continue his research. Continue helping the Blades. Continue his search and follow leads. He'll continue to seek out the joy between moments. 

He'll stay with Lance, building what he hopes will be a fortress that can withstand his absence. 

He'll hate the goodbye, but he won't forget the good times. 

He'll never forget the good times.

* * *

Pain blossoms across his cheek, snapping his head to the side. He stumbles back, grin stretching his split lip as he licks across the cut. The taste of metal and salt on his tongue. Adrenaline singing in his veins. The heat of the fight burning in his blood. 

He looks back at his opponent, straightening slowly. Cracking his neck as he makes eye contact. Gaze fierce and sharp. Grin manic as he lifts a hand into the air, middle finger up. 

The Galra lunges, and Keith sweeps away, swinging his other fist. The satisfying crack of impact. The crunch of cartilage. The spray of warmth across bare knuckles. He stumbles away, but Keith is charging after him. 

The crack of a chain behind him, buzzing and crackling with energy. The sickening snap of it against broken concrete. Keith's hand flies to his dagger, pulling it from his sheath and pressing his thumb to the gem. The energy crackles to life, creating a much longer and much more wicked blade. 

He spins, raising it to stop the chain as it swings. It wraps around his blade, energy crackling, plasma sparking against each other. Keith grits his teeth, holding tight. Eyes locked on the Galra sneering a few feet away. Scarred face lit by the crackling flare of their weapons. 

A shot of light. 

His eyes go wide, mouth falling open. A trickle of blood from the corner of his lips. 

He falls. The chain goes limp. Keith lets it fall from his sword, straightening to look to the side. 

Lance stands there, eyes shining above the face mask that covers the lower half of his face. He can tell from the lift of his cheeks that he's grinning. Hair mussed and wild. Long coat whipping behind him. Gun still raised. 

A moment of eye contact. A moment of exchanged smiles. A moment where wild and chaotic energy crackles between them. A spark that catches. A flame that burns. A wildfire that consumes. 

Lance's eyes snap to something behind him. He hears movement. And then he spins, dashing once more into the fray. 

He loses himself in it. In the pain. In the fire. In the adrenaline. His movements are reactionary. A habit and impulse built from experience and training. He cuts through the Galra blindly. One enemy to another. Protect his fellow Galra. Protect the Paladins at his side. One Galra down. Find another. 

The ambush they had set up had gone off smoothly. Galra running quint loads through newly cut Blade territory. Hedging on the border of the Paladins’ terf. New supply routes they'd devised. Routes that Pidge had managed to find while hacking their system a week back. 

They set up an ambush for them. Blades and Paladins together. Their intervention seems to have been expected, however. There's a lot more Galra than an average supply run would warrant. Or maybe they're just taking precautions. Their alliance has been giving them a lot of push back lately. 

His post and Lance's were nowhere near each other, but he's not surprised when they end up together. Lance moves from perch to perch, watching Keith's back. The two of them drawn together by a gravitational force. A tug that connects them through space and time. Something they can't resist or ignore. 

He feels the crackle between them. Catches glimpses of sharp blue eyes. The manic spark in them. 

It reminds him of picking fights in the Garrison. Reminds him of fights and scuffles with Lance at his back. Reminds him of the laughter they shared afterward, cataloguing their bruises and cuts. 

Reminds him of being younger. More innocent. Naive. When fighting was easy and lacked the thrill of actual consequence. When danger was a thin illusion that made them feel a semblance of freedom. 

Here it's different. The air is colder. The sting and ache is sharper. The adrenaline is more addicting, and the satisfaction is real. 

It's dangerous. It's life threatening. And with Lance at his back and a blade in his hand, he feels _alive_.

Sirens cut through the night. Slicing through the fight induced haze. Everyone freezes. Galra, Blades, and Paladins. They stop. A moment of stillness as sirens echo around them. As the familiar flashing lights bounce off the buildings in the distance, distinct from the usual neon glow.

A snapshot in the moment of action. A slice of stillness in the middle of a fight. People frozen in time. Tension filling the air, thick and suffocating. Pulling the string between them all taut. Pulling— pulling— pulling—

" _Run!_ "

It snaps. 

Everyone scatters. Gangs and alliances forgotten. Everyone for themselves. It's part of their lifestyle. Breaking apart holds a better chance for everyone. He doesn't think the Galra care for each other. The Blades know everyone can handle themselves. 

In the moments of chaos, however, he sees the Paladins grouping. Hunk grabs Pidge, throwing her over his shoulder as he runs and she shouts behind him. Allura grabs Pidge's brother, Matt, spinning him around and dragging him off. 

A hand slips into his own, and suddenly Lance is there. Dragging him through the scattering chaos. Leaping over bodies. Weaving through people. Hands tight to stay together. Darting around buildings and through alleyways. 

In the escape, there are no enemies. No more fights. No more Paladins and Blades versus the Galra. No last minute punches thrown. While the Garrison may be in the pocket of the Galra, the Empire doesn't give a shit about lowly grunts. They'd rather let them rot in Garrison prisons as punishment for being caught.

They're all allies in the face of the Garrison. 

They run. Sprinting through the streets. Lungs aching and legs screaming. Through the city. Into the crowds. Beneath the neon lights. Splashing through the puddles. Shoving past tweakers lingering on corners and dealers trying to catch their eye. 

The sound of sirens fades behind them. The flashing lights of orange and white no longer bounce off the buildings around them. They slow their pace. Hands still clutched tight. Adrenaline bleeding to relief. Relief bleeding into a giddy high of its own. 

Laughter bubbles up from their chests, spilling past their lips and into the night. 

Lance drags him into an alleyway. Devoid of neon signs. Pulls him into the shadows, where the light is only an echo against their skin. 

Mask pulled down, Keith gets a glimpse of his wild grin before he's pressed to the concrete wall. 

Cold, chipped, and rough against his back. Lance's body, firm and solid and warm against his front. Their armor hard and digging where it presses together. A knee pressed between his thighs, rubbing up into him. Making him gasp. Making his hips rock. A firm hand on his thigh. Long slender fingers pulling it up around Lance's hip. 

Lance's mouth, hot and heavy on his. Lips firm and demanding. Parted to let the wet heat of his tongue push into Keith's mouth. Heads tilted to find the right angles. Keith's arms around Lance's broad shoulders. Fingers digging into his hair. Needy sounds ripped from his throat as Lance's hips rock into him. Again and again. Pinning him to the wall. 

The taste of salt and metal. Sharp pain from split lips. Bruises burning on their flesh, silently screaming as hands and fingers dig into them. His body aches. His body sings. Chest heaving. Breath coming short. Hot in his mouth.

Lance pushes into him. Demanding. Commanding. Desperate and passionate. Keith clings to him. Giving what he can. Taking what Lance gives. 

Lost in his touch. Lost in his taste. Lost in his lips and the devilish swipe of his tongue. 

Lost in him. 

He won't forget the good times. 

* * *

High on a rooftop overlooking the city around them. Stretching high enough to cross the line between the lower and upper city. The party thrives. Dozens of people dressed in their best. An armor of its own. Fashions only a few seasons out of date. Colors. Walking the line of standing out and blending in. 

The music is more of a low hum than the clubs. Conversation prevails. The dance is in their words. In the social maneuvering. In the deals made beneath the din. Glasses clink to celebrate. Laughter rings out like bells, fake and crystalline. 

It's a front. A charade. A game. 

The Paladins are branching out with their clientele. Trying to get backers from a few steps up from their usual. The Empire's product is failing. The Paladins have something new. Something fun. Something clean and pure. A better high. Less of a crash. New formulas. New flavors. Take a quick hit. Something small to whet your appetite. Feels good, doesn't it? Wanna set up a plan for more?

Allura flits between them all. A diamond. A shining beacon of social grace. The coy smile that draws them in. A shrewd eye for business. 

Hunk makes casual conversation. Serving drinks. Slipping out little samples when they come to him with a special slip given out by Allura. A friendly face and a warm smile, but the bulk and the size to intimidate. To dissuade any trouble.

Pidge and her brother talk shop. Details. Keep the secrets of the trade out of the convo, but keep them interested. Science babble. How they cut the new quint. How they made it. What makes it special. What makes it clean. Describe the high. Pique the interest. 

Coran slips through the crowd. An eccentric face. An exuberant voice. Keeps people interested, mildly amused. Makes them relax. Makes them laugh. That makes them more willing to try. More willing to spend money. 

Under other circumstances, Keith knows full well that Lance would be out there with them. Charming and saddling up with the money. Putting on his charm and turning his smile up to eleven. He'd be good at it. He probably is. 

He's not in the crowd, however. He's with Keith.

They stand off to the side. At the back of the crowd. Leaning up against the half wall that surrounds the edge of the roof. Not quite sitting. Not quite standing. Out of the way of others. In a world of their own. 

They're dressed in black. Makes them stand out from the crowd. Shows that they're not the money. They're the guns. Not to be trifled with. Ready to fuck shit up, should it be needed. 

Pressed close. Thighs and hips touching. Lance's arm slung casually around his waist. They lean close. Cigarettes between their fingers. Smoke rising like twisted fingers into the night. Can't get high. Not while on a job. Not while keeping an eye on everything. But the nicotine is fresh and grounding. 

Heads bowed together. Skin a breath away from touching. A tease of warmth. They watch the crowd. Whisper together. Chuckle softly. 

Lance's breath on his lips. Ghosting against his skin. Lips moving against the shell of his ear. Smile pulled small and private, pressed to the sensitive flesh of his neck as he tilts his head. Fingers digging into Lance's thigh. 

Reminds him of other parties. When they were young. Dressed casually in black and pressed into the back of the room. Creating a private space for just them. A bubble of suspended time as the party shifted around them. 

When they were still new to the world. When they didn't know better. When they chased each other without really knowing why. Drawn to each other by a powerful force. A fierce passion neither of them could deny. 

Chasing each other. An endless game. Before they truly knew what love is. What it means. 

With the smell of Lance's breath, sweet and bitter with smoke, filling his senses, and his lips hot on his skin, Keith thinks he knows now. 

He thinks he knows what it means. 

The bonfire moon comes down in the sky behind them.

The party continues on. 

Keith memorizes the feeling of Lance pressed into his side. Of his touch and his heat. The comfort of his presence. The aching of his chest when faced with that smug grin. The dizziness he feels when they steal light and fleeting kisses.

He won't forget the good times.

* * *

Sweat on skin. Glistening in the neon lights that filter through the window. Salt on his tongue as he leans down to taste. As he leaves bruises on tan flesh with lips and teeth. As he pants against Lance's skin. 

Pressed together. Bodies moving— moving— moving— unable to stop. Chasing the pleasure that builds between them. Lance is hot and tight around him. Keith drives into him. Over and over. Hips unrelenting as he pushes Lance into the mattress. As the bed creaks and slams against the wall. 

Lance's legs wrapped tight around him. Thighs powerful and bruised from his fingertips. Lance's nails clawing down his back. Tearing into flesh. Leaving raised lines to mark his pleasure. 

Head tossed back. Eyes squeezed shut. Red, swollen lips parted. Chestnut hair slicked with sweat and messy against the pillow. Back arched beautifully. Chest heaving. Abs flexing as his hips roll to meet Keith's thrusts. 

Driving— driving—

Building— Building—

Chasing each other. Chasing their pleasure. Chasing the build. Chasing the drive. 

Lost together. Lost in time. Lost in the neon glow.

Lance cries out, body tensing. Keith is right behind him. Sounds ripped from his throat and he spills inside him. Tension— the break. He collapses on top of him. Lies there as they revel in the high. Floating and light. Easing down slowly. Far more naturally than any hit. 

Keith rests his head on Lance's chest. Listening to the fluttering of his heartbeat slowly come down. Lance's fingers in his hair. On his shoulders and back. Tracing up and down his spine. Soothing. Rhythmic. Keith hums. Feels Lance's lips press into his hair. He knows he's crushing Lance into the mattress, but he doesn't complain. 

He closes his eyes. Feels at ease. Body light and mind drifting. Calm. Settled. Floating in nothing. Anchored by the man beneath him. 

It's a peace he hasn't felt in a long, long time. One that he's only ever been able to find in Lance's embrace. 

He's been searching for so long. For what, he's never been sure. _Something_. _Anything_. To make him feel alive. To make him feel safe. To make him feel like he's found his place. 

He never realized what he had until he left it behind. 

Now he has it again. Now he knows. 

When they laughed... when they cried…

These are the days. They own the night. 

Here, in Lance's apartment, in his embrace, they're locked away. Lost in time. 

And it's here, in the smoke filled room, smelling of salt and sweat, reveling in the high of their pleasure, of each other, that Keith finds the nerve to say—

"I don't want to leave..." It's mumbled against Lance's collarbone. Whispered against warm skin. 

The fingers in his hair still. Tightening their grip. Fingers on his spine carefully tracing the notches. "Then don't," he whispers into the room. Into the dead space between them. Soft and assured. Firm in conviction, but wavering in a gentle fear. 

Keith's arms tighten around him, turning to bury his face in the crook of his neck. "I might have to. The time may come..."

"Will you come back?" He's hesitant.

Keith is not. "Yes."

"Then I'll take you at your word and carry on. But I'll wait for you."

Lance shifts. Forces Keith to look up. Cups his face and pulls him into a kiss. Soft, but no less fierce. A gentle passion. A firm conviction. A promise. A demand. Lips melding into one. Keith eases into it. Claims him. Takes in all of him and gives himself in return. 

Locked away in each other's embrace.

Lost in time. 

He'll hate the goodbye, but he won't forget the good times. 

* * *

The sound he wakes up to is sharp and quick. A succession and pattern that he's become innately familiar with. His eyes snap open. Startled from the dead of sleep with a spike of adrenaline. Only for it to quickly waver in the fresh light of day. 

He groans, closing his eyes once more as he buries his face in the warmth of Lance's back. Rubbing his nose along the notches of his spine. Wrapping his arms tight around his narrow waist. Tucking his legs into the crook of his knees. He breathes out a sigh. Content once more.

But the beeping sounds again. Sharp and quick. 

Three. Four. Two. 

He sighs again, this time tired, as he rolls over. He stares at the ceiling for a moment. At the cracking plaster. At the water damage stains that are near invisible at night. His head rolls to the side, eyeing the communicator sitting atop his gloves on the nightstand. 

The harsh red light of day streams in through the window. It drowns out the still flickering neon billboards outside Lance's apartment. Makes the light muted and sickly. It lights up the room in a reddish gray glow. Brings a gritty realism to the apartment. To the cracks in the walls and the stains on the floor. To the sickly pallor of Lance's bruises against his skin. Of the scars that mar his flesh. 

The world outside is gray and dreary. A cloudy day, despite the sun. Threatening rain, no doubt. Dirty buildings. A grimy street below. Cars zipping by stained with the ash of pollution. The smell of stale smoke and bitter sweat lingers in the room, sharp on his tongue. 

He sits up slowly, gritting his teeth as his body protests. Bruises. Cuts. Scars. Muscles aching, echoes of both pain and pleasure. 

His feet hit the floor. Cold. Skin less porcelain and more tarnished ivory in the light of day. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Running his fingers through messy hair. Trying to wake up enough. Trying to work up the will to answer. It better not be urgent. He just wants to crawl back into bed behind Lance. 

He places the familiar metal square to the back of his hand. Barely wincing as the needles dig into his skin. He's used to the bite. Desensitized to it. It fades quickly into a distant throb. Shaking it away, he lifts his hand, palm up. 

It glows. He waits. A soft ping. "Keith Kogane," he says, trying to make his voice clear and concise despite the grogginess he feels.

Another soft ding. 

A brighter glow. A holographic orb floating over his palm, wavering lines ticking in time to the voice that comes through.

" _New leads have been found. Code Silver. We may have found him. Report back to base as soon as you are able_."

The message cuts out. The glow fades. The room goes silent. 

Keith can hear nothing but the ringing in his ears and the pound of his heart. 

_Shiro_.

He turns, eyes settling on the man in the bed behind him. Curled into the blankets. Face lax in sleep. Lips parted and hair mussed. Skin marked with fresh bruises from Keith's lips and teeth. 

He's going to have to leave. 

He doesn't know how things will be when he returns. 

He reaches out, fingers shaking as he runs them along Lance's back. Over warm skin. Digging through his hair. Tracing along the curve of his neck. His jaw. His cheek. His lips. 

He commits it to memory. This moment. Lance, so peaceful next to him. Marked and tired and relaxed. At peace with Keith. Beautiful, even in the harsh light of day. He memorizes how he looks. How he feels. The warmth beneath his fingertips and the softness of his skin. The smell of stale smoke and the lingering salt of their skin. 

No matter what happens, he won't forget the good times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> __________________
> 
> Go listen to the song! Go go. 
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
> **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	5. Track 5: Nice2KnoU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So long, so nice to know ya, nice to know ya  
> I'm sorry to say  
> We can't go back to yesterday  
> This night is far from over, far from over  
> Let's get carried away  
> We can't go back to yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments on the last chapter: "But they'll be fine, right? Keith won't leave him again, right? They're still going to be together, riGHT??"  
> Me, looking at the lyrics for the next song in the album: _sweats_
> 
> Everything will be worth it in the end. Trust. Thank you everyone for your lovely comments <33 They make my day, and I love hearing from people who love the music/can feel the music.
> 
> Happy reading!

The corner store lights flicker, weak and disjointed, threatening to cast the little corner into shadow. But every time the flicker dims, it beats back to life. Determined to cling to the little bit of power it has left. 

There are bars in the windows. Reinforced titanium. He knows from experience that the cashiers keep Garrison grade blasters beneath the counters. He knows not because he's tried to rob the place, but because he's the one who sold them the weapons. Lifted from a couple Garrison supply ships that were originally lifted by the Empire. 

Instead of handing the weapons back to the Garrison, where they'd just be peddled out under the guise of another robbery, they’d decided it'd be better to arm the people. 

He's fond of this corner store. His family used to live around here. Back before he went to the Garrison. Back before he left. Back before he got enough money to move his family to a better part of the city. Higher than street level. 

This little store always had the cheapest candy. The lasting ones, designed to shift through flavors as you savored. Made the little coin he could scrounge up worth it. And they always looked the other way when he'd pocket an extra two for his niece and nephew. 

Not technically on Paladin territory, but definitely under Lance's personal protection. 

As such, they look the other way when he uses the corner as a scouting stop, or a drop off point, or a checkpoint. 

Right now he's perched atop their roof, sitting on the ledge with one knee bent and the other leg dangling off the edge. The advertisements around him have conveniently burned out for the night. Courtesy of Pidge's specially designed localized EMP gun. One shot, and he's mostly lost in shadow. Convenient. 

He leaves the corner store's lights on, though. For the ambiance. For the nostalgia. Because the loud buzz and flashing lights are comforting. Silence and darkness is how one loses themselves to memories. 

He's not into that. Not right now. Not when he can't go back to yesterday.

Arm resting atop his knee, his sleeve is rolled up, exposing his wrist band. The square display is lit and glowing a faint white light, casting the hologram into the air above his arm. 

The blue-tinged display shows a map on one side and his messages on the other. The map shows an outline of a chunk of city a couple of blocks away, a few thick dots blinking in various colors. Tracking the location of his fellow Paladins. 

It's not the map he stares at, however. It's his inbox. There's nothing new. No new messages. No new calls. 

That doesn't stop him from staring at it. Doesn't stop his heart from pounding. Straining. Catching the fraying edges on his ribcage and slowly unraveling. Doesn't stop his stomach from fluttering with the lightness of hope on a butterfly's wing, while simultaneously buzzing the stinging angry hiss of a wasp's. 

"Come on...," he whispers into the night, licking chapped lips. They're no longer bruised. No longer swollen. But he swears if he closes his eyes, he can still taste the phantom of Keith. 

No messages answer him. No calls come through. 

All he hears is the flickering buzz of the corner store lights. 

The radiating hum of electricity all around the city.

The distant rumble of hover traffic above. 

The general din of conversation. Of heels creating a backbeat on the concrete. Of footsteps in puddles. Of laughter. Of shouts. 

"Come _on_ , you asshole," he murmurs into the night. "You said you'd call two hours ago." His eyes flicker to the map on the other side of the holoscreen. The dots are on the move. He can hear the soft buzzing of voices nearby getting louder. 

Sighing, he reaches for his earpiece, abandoned on the roof next to him. He can hear them shouting his name before he even gets it in his ear. 

“—Lance? Lance! Please, come in!" Sounds like Allura.

" _Lance!_ Come _on_ , where the _fuck—_ " Definitely Pidge.

"Watch your language, squirt. I'm here."

"Where have you been, dude?" Hunk, all worry and relief. Good guy. "Did you have your earpiece out again?"

"Sorry, guys. I was distracted." In a way. If you can call wallowing in his own misery a distraction. Whatever. He hadn't been part of the first half of this job, and their constant nagging in his ear hadn't exactly been helping keep his anxiety choked down. 

"Did lover boy call?" Pidge, the sharp bite of her tone smoothed at the edges with a playful tease. 

Too bad he isn't in the mood. "Don't wanna talk about it. What's the status?" 

"We crashed the drop. Most of them scattered, but Matt and his squad are cleaning up the runners on the outskirts."

"As we predicted, the buyer bolted. He's headed in your direction." Allura's voice, crisp and clean. Commanding and informative. A woman after his own heart, if his heart wasn't already taken. 

Man, he's really got a type.

"Got it." He lets his sleeve fall back down over his wrist, the holoscreen automatically shutting off. He reaches into his jacket, pulling the gun from his holster. A relatively simple former Garrison grade hand blaster. 

Then he pulls out the upgrade attachment from where it's attached to the belt strapped across his chest. Along with it are several other attachments and fuel charges. He slaps the attachment in his hand to the side of the gun with the lethargic and yet precise movements of familiarity. Clicking it into place in the loading dock. 

Instantly the gun begins to glow, changing shape and growing. The metal specially crafted to be able to reform on an atomic level. Nanobites and all that shit. Pretty cool once Pidge and Hunk get ahold of them. 

When the bites finish forming and the metal stops glowing, he's got a long barreled sniper rifle in his hands. Hefting it to his shoulder, he clicks the button on the side to make the holographic sight pop up over it. 

"Alright, what am I looking for?"

"Nondescript white and orange bike, but with chipped black paint."

"Garrison issue?"

"Yeah, but clearly modded. Pidge managed to tag it with a locator chip. Your sight should pick it up."

"Cool. No problem."

He trains the gun on the sky, looking through the holographic sight screen at the flow of traffic above the street. Above him. There are a few other bikes. A few hover cars and ships. All of them in their own hurry, but none in the kind of get-away frenzy that he's looking for—

_There_.

A zipping bike. Flying at dangerous speeds and weaving between traffic. It beeps in his sight, the screen picking up the locator chip easily, helping him get air. 

"Found 'em."

Steady his arms. Inhale. Take his time. Aim. Wait for the perfect shot. Exhale. Shoot.

One of the engines on the back of the bike explode in a flurry of smoke and sparks. The bike spins out of control, quickly losing altitude as the driver tries to steady it on the way down. 

"Nailed 'em."

"We're on our way. Don't let him run."

"Got it."

He dislodges the attachment from his gun, strapping it back to the belt across his chest and sliding his handgun back into its holster as he stands. 

He leaps off the roof, grabbing a pipe on the way down to drop onto the fire escape. Swinging over the edge of that and catching the rusting ladder. Dropping the rest of the way to the broken concrete. He's running as soon as he hits, darting down the alley to where he left his own bike. 

He's got a leg swung over good ol' Blue when his wrist vibrates. The synced ping rings in his ear. 

He grits his teeth, hissing a quick, " _Fuck_." 

He knows without looking that it's Keith. Of course it's fucking Keith. Of course he calls _now_. 

He wants to answer. His whole body comes alive with the vibrations. With how the need to hear his voice and see his beautiful stupid face reverberates through him. It's a need. An _ache_.

But he can't.

Not now.

He's on a job, and the night's on ice if they don't score. 

Hissing out another curse, he slams his crystal ring to the pad on his bike and revs the engine. It leaps off the concrete, and he leans forward to grab the handlebars. 

He waited for Keith. Keith can wait for him. 

He shoots out of the alley and down the street, heading for the trail of smoke and the sound of a bike crash.

* * *

_"Fucking... seriously?" He paces across his room, wearing a path through the clothes and junk that litter his floor. One hand on his hip, he runs the fingers of his other hand through his hair, mussing it and scratching at the back of his neck._

_He glances at where Keith leans against the wall. Next to the window. Lights from the familiar advertisements lighting up the bare skin of his torso. Catching shadows on the lines of muscle. Darkening the scars and the bruises. Some from fights. Some from Lance's mouth._

_Keith doesn't look at him. Arms crossed over his chest. Pants dark and form fitting. One leg bent, foot propped up on the wall behind him. His head is turned, hair messy and falling around his face, teasing his neck and shoulders. His eyes are narrowed. Lips pursed into a thin line. The advertisements flick through colors. Outlining the sharp lines of his jaw and nose._

_"Seriously."_

_"But..._ tomorrow _?" He feels his eyes narrow, tightening at the edges. He feels his lips purse, jaw tense and strained. It's the only thing keeping him from breaking. The tension. String it tight and taut. Threads keeping him stitched together, even as they threaten to fray. "That's so— fuck, dude. That's so sudden."_

_"I know." Keith's eyes narrow a fraction. He breathes out heavily, in what can almost be a sigh. His shoulder drop an inch. And again, softer, "I know."_

_"And you're sure?_ They're _sure? This is the real deal?"_

_Keith tilts his head then. Eyes sliding to meet his own across the room. Not looking at him directly, but still giving him his full attention. Gaze as sharp as his voice. "Does it matter?" Not cold. Not indifferent. Simply resigned. Simply factual._

_"_ Yes _."_

_"No." Eyes back to the window. Lost to the waking chaos of the night. Watching the transition of the sunset. Watching the city darken. The haze turn to fog. The dim grayish orange light fade to the brilliant neon of the night. Watching as the city comes alive._

_"_ Fuck _."_

_He turns sharply, kicking the closest object. He doesn't know what it is. Something metal. Something that clatters loudly against the wall. Something that makes his toes ache. But he doesn't care. It's nothing compared to the tightening of his chest. The twist of his heart. The painful clench in his gut._

_Because Keith is leaving._

_Again._

_And Lance knows he can't ask him to stay._

_"I have to go." Keith's voice is soft. A whisper beneath the buzz of electricity and the high pitched rattle of pipes as one of Lance's neighbors showers. Beneath the deep rumble of engines outside._

_"I know." Lance's shoulders slump as he sighs. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. Glaring at the clothes on the floor. Haphazardly discarded the night before. His padded armor. His leather belts and holsters. His guns. Ammo. Mod attachments. He managed to get his pants on, still undone and loose, before Keith dropped the bomb on him. "I know."_

_He grits his teeth, hissing out a frustrated sigh. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pushes the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose._

_"And I can't— I can't go with you this time either. I have shit to do here— I'm a Paladin now—"_

_"I know." Keith's voice is closer. Lance hadn't even heard him move. Hands slide down his back, reverent and slow. Arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back, flush against a bare chest. Keith's chin hooks over his shoulder. Voice a breath against his neck. "It's not forever. I'll come back."_

_Lance pulls out of his grasp, stepping away to turn and face him. Meeting his gaze, his own narrowed. Lips pursed into a small frown. He holds out a hand, fingers curled into a fist with only his pinky extended._

_Keith blinks, eyes sliding down to his hand as he frowns. Not upset. Not frustrated. That cute little pout when he doesn't understand._

_"Promise?" Keith's eyes slide back up to meet his, understanding melting away the frown. Eyes widening just a fraction. Lips relaxing in his surprise. Lance feels the tug of a wry smile. Lets it pull at the corners of his lips. "I didn't make you promise last time."_

_The ghost of a wayward smile finds its way onto Keith's features. "I came back anyway."_

_"I know." He extends his arm a fraction more. "Humor me."_

_He does. Lifts his own hand and twines his pinky with Lance's. Steps closer until their joined hands are the only thing separating them. Until they share the same breath and feel the heat of each other's body._

_The promise is a fragile thing. An illusion of a security net. It's a promise that both of them know Keith might not be able to keep. Anything could happen to him. Life is a fragile, unpredictable thing. They don't know what he'll find. What he'll get into. Where this lead will take him. He might find Shiro. He might not. Either way, they can't know for certain that he'll come back._

_All they have are glass promises, thin and quivering in the wind._

_"We still have tonight," Keith whispers._

_Lance finds himself smiling. Lopsided and wry. Sharp and wicked. Bordering on something dangerous and wild in the wake of his grief. A fighting flame, burning bright and lashing out against the inevitable. "One more time for second chances?"_

_Keith's answering grin is highlighted by the neon light and sharp in the shadows. "Let's do some damage."_

* * *

"Come on..." He whispers into the night. The air is cold, breath fogging as it leaves his lips. He sits back on his bike, idling off the side of some less crowded road. First one he had found once the job was secured.

He can hear the footsteps of people passing. Heels on a backbeat. The stumble of others. Splashes through puddles. He ignores them all.

Focuses wholly on the buzzing ringing from his earpiece. 

He holds his arm out in front of him, holding the sleeve back with the other hand. His wristband glows, casting the holoscreen into the air in front of him. It shows nothing but a wavelength. A flatline. A dot above it pulsing gently. Idling. 

He waits, breath caught in his lungs. Let out in another rush of, "Come _on_ , you asshole."

It clicks. The call ends. No voicemail. Just a dead line. No answer. Silence through his earpiece. The outgoing call screen on his holoscreen closing. 

And then he's alone.

Again. 

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses through gritted teeth, roughly pulling his sleeve back down. Holoscreen force dimming. He runs his fingers through his windswept hair, pulling at the ends until his scalp stings. 

They said that they'd keep in touch. It's a thing everyone says. Meaningless. A pleasantry. Goodbye. So long. So nice to know ya. We'll keep in touch.

Nobody ever does, but it doesn't matter much.

Except now. Except to Lance. 

Because he _cares_. And what they had shifting into just a thing. Just a fling. Something that passes and fades to memory with little consequences. It _hurts_. 

He leans forward. Grabs the handles of his bike too tight. Revs the engine too hard. Hears Blue roar too loud. Loves the way it echoes off the buildings around him. Loves the way it fuels a fire in his blood. Loves the way the thrill hedges out the pain. 

He pulls the cloth around his neck higher, skin tight and covering the lower half of his face to keep it warm. He pulls out his earpiece and drops it to the ground. Hears it clatter against the broken concrete. Hears the satisfying _crunch_ as he crushes it beneath the heel of his boot. Hears the scrape as he twists his foot. 

He darts off into the night. Wind in his hair. Bite of the chill against his heated skin. Blissful and numb. He drives fast and reckless. Faster. Faster. _Faster_. The adrenaline is a drug. The thrill drowns out the ache. 

So much for second chances. 

Right now? He just wants to forget.

He just wants to do some damage.

* * *

_The quint tastes like blue. But not like blue raspberry. But blue. Like those drinks that come in solid colors and flavors like_ iceberg freeze _and_ cooler glacier _and_ tundra berry _._

_Just tastes... blue. Kinda fruity. Light and refreshing. With that cooling bite that's almost like mint, but not quite. Lingers on the tongue and makes everything feel cold._

_Pidge calls it_ Blue Mountain Breeze _._

Fancy _, he thinks. Or he meant to. But Keith snorts softly next to him, huff of air drifting across his collarbones, and he realizes maybe he said it aloud._

_Keith's hair tickles his chin. His jaw. His neck. It's a distant feeling. Light and fleeting. His skin tingles. Physical sensation is numbed. Distant. His head working at half speed, and vision not quite lining up. There's a drag. There's a delay between mind and mouth._

_He can't tell if the haze around him is from the quint or just a general status of the club. Probably the club. The lights flash off of it. Dazzling and dizzying. Bright and catching. Casting the world in a neon relief. An alternate reality. One where things haven't gone to shit._

_If he pretends hard enough, he can go back to yesterday. Back to the fleeting and budding feeling of contentment. The fragile and dim ember of hope that dared to grow._

_Before the bud was crushed._

_Before the ember was snuffed out._

_If he pretends hard enough. If the night lasts long enough. Yesterday will never pass. Tomorrow will never come._

_"Look at my hand," he says, lips numb and tongue feeling thick. His hand moves in front of him. Blurring at the edges as it moves. He leans to rest his cheek on Keith's head. Wiggles his fingers. Feels his giggle more than he hears it. He folds his fingers into a gun, aiming it across the room. "_ Pow _."_

_Keith sits up. Lifting his head, yet somehow still plastered to his side. His legs are thrown over Lance's lap, though he's not sure when that happened. His hands have been idly smoothing over his thighs, though. Groping him through the tight fabric. Pleased that his leather guards had been left behind for once._

_He's distracted when Keith's hand comes down over his. All warm leather and calloused fingers. Pale and catching the neon lights._

_Keith's lips against his ear. Breath feathering out against his neck. Voice deep and suggestive. "Know what else those hands can do?"_

Yeah _. Yeah, he does. He really fucking does. They can do so many things. So many fucking things, your mind's gonna be blown, babe—_

_Another soft chuckle of laughter. Right. Said it aloud again._

_Keith's lips trailing along his jaw. His nose tracing a path across his cheek. Leaving trails of fire in their wake. Fire that burns through the numb vibrations of his body. "This new quint is good."_

_"Pidge is a mad scientist. Another hit?"_

_"Later."_

_Keith's lips on his. Hot and burning. Tongue in his mouth, lazy and sloppy. Yet demanding and teasing. Lance's fingers in Keith's hair, pulling tight. Making him gasp. Keith's fingers clumsy and searching. Restless. Feeling every inch of him. Slipping beneath his clothes to find heated flesh. Trailing fire and the bite of nails._

_Lance drowns in it. Gives himself over to it. Relishes in the way time slows to a halt. In the way he can memorize the feeling of Keith against him between the slow drag of seconds. Taking everything he has to offer. Taking the same from Keith._

_This night is far from over._

_Far from over._

_But the knowledge that the end will come still looms heavily. A thick cloud of smog filling up the shadows in his mind. Tugging at the taut, frayed strings holding his heart in place. Threatening to smother the buzz he's riding. To drag him down from his high._

_So he loses himself in Keith._

_This night is far from over._

_They're gonna get carried away._

_He wishes he could go back to yesterday._

* * *

The old stereo crackles. Emitting static between the notes. Mingling with the chords. Hedging the edges of words. It doesn't matter. He knows them anyway. Old songs. Songs his mother used to sing. His brothers used to sing. His sisters. Him to his niece and nephew. 

The radio is old. A piece of junk plucked from an old car they once found. Modified by Hunk to pick up modern signals. Modified to work. 

It's broken now. Speakers rattling in their cages. Muffling the words with static and crackling the chords. 

He doesn't care. He likes it broken. Thinks it's unique that way. 

He sits on the edge of the bridge. Far on the outskirts of the city. Left alone with his thoughts. With the ache. With nothing but the crackling of the radio to echo out over the waves, creating a melody to the crash of the tide below. 

There's a pleasant buzz in his veins. A subtle high that keeps him drifting just on the edge of his body. Just outside of awareness. Just enough that things don't line up. Just enough to keep him from feeling it all. Can see it, but can't feel it. Not in this moment. Future Lance, though. Yeah, that guy's gonna have to deal with all the heartbreak. Present Lance? He's _fine_.

He lifts the rolled joint to his lips, breathing in deep and tilting his head back. Hand falls to the concrete behind him, joint resting between his fingers. He stares at the sky through half lidded eyes, letting the smoke drift from his lips with an exhale. 

Watches it rise and dissipate into the night. Watches it blend into the clouds. 

There are no stars tonight. 

That familiar bitterness on his tongue. That familiar bite that bleeds into the buzz. A pleasant edge of cinnamon. Coran's blend. A soothing strain. Meant to take the edge off his anxiety. A mellow one. 

Another hit.

Another exhale.

A laugh into the night. It sounds just as raspy as the crackle of the broken stereo. 

" _Fuck you_ , Keith!" Coming back into his life like a whirlwind. Leaving him ragged and breathless and dizzy. Leaving him empty. 

Future Lance is in for a shit storm. Present Lance is doing _fine_. Past Lance, though? Past Lance had it good. He was _happy_. 

He wants to go back to yesterday.

"Dude."

He turns his head slowly, vision taking a moment to catch up. Eyes taking a moment to focus. A familiar figure climbing off a familiar bike built like a fucking tank. 

He grins, feeling it curl his lips in lopsided glee. "Hunk! My buddy. My man."

No smile. Just that furrowed brow and press of a frown. Eyes thick with concern. Boo. "You okay, buddy?"

He shrugs. "Fine." A hit. An exhale. A pass. "Want some?"

Hunk takes it, easing down onto the ledge next to him. "Thanks." Takes a long slow hit. Deep and good. Exhale. Smoke drifting out in the bay breeze. "Whatcha doing out here?"

Another shrug. "Forgetting."

"How's that working?"

"It's not, and it fucking sucks."

"I'm sorry, man."

"I know," he sighs. "Me, too."

A long silence. Companionable. Comfortable. Hunk knows. He doesn't need Lance to tell him, and he knows Lance doesn't want to. They puff and pass. Filling their lungs. Filling the night air. Out here in the dark. Out here in the silence. A bubble of solitude, filled with broken stereo. He sings along to it. Voice loud in the night. 

"Let's get carried away," he says in the silence between songs. The joint is done. Flicked into the waves. 

There's a glint in Hunk's sidelong gaze. A devious curl of his lips. "For old time's sake?"

They can't go back to yesterday, but he can sure as hell try. 

Hunk climbs back on his bike, starting it up and casting the broken bridge in the dull gold glow. Filling the air with the hum of the engines. 

Lance stands on the edge, facing out to the bay. Staring out at the starless night. At the distant black waves. " _Fuck you_ , Keith!" He shouts, throwing his head back. Voice loud and raw. Wild and free. Feeling the thrill rush through his veins. Feeling it claw at his throat. A fire. Burning. A high that keeps him from crashing. " _So long, so nice to know ya!_ "

He turns his back on the bay. The broken bridge. The broken stereo. 

* * *

_This night is far from over. Far from over._

_Lights flash all around them. Not the flickering, fickle neon of advertisements. But the direct bold colors of spotlights. Of dance lights. Specifically chosen for the set. Lighting up the club. The tiles below the dance floor. The balconies that rise around them._

_Colors. Flashing bright. Igniting them in different shades. Different shadows. Contorting who they are. Contorting reality. Bending time and creating a bubble to encase them. A bubble where things are different. A bubble where the outside world can't touch them._

_Here and now, the night is far from over._

_They get carried away._

_Slaves to the music that pulses through the club like a heartbeat. A rhythm that throbs through them. Demanding. Commanding. Controlling their movements. Controlling the flash of lights. A rhythm they're lost to. A buzz in their veins. Demanding they_ move _._

_He moves against Keith. Leaned back against him. Head tilted back against his shoulder. Keith's lips on his neck. Breath hot against the sweat clinging to his skin. Their outer layers have been shed. Their armor left above, in the Paladin areas._

_Keith's hands around him. Roaming his waist. His hips. Dipping beneath his shirt. Pushing it up until skin is exposed to humid air. Hands hot. Leather gloves warm. Fingertips burning as they trace fire across his skin. As they reach down to grab his thighs. Dipping between them. Lance's hips rutting against his rough palm._

_His own hands behind him, in Keith's hair. Nails biting into his strong forearms. Body writhing. Pressing back. Melding into Keith's heat. Rubbing back against him. Hips moving together like crashing tides. Carrying them away._

_The oncoming day threatens their fragile bubble, but right here, right now, this night is far from over._

_Far from over._

_They get carried away._

* * *

Looking for trouble. Smoke from Coran's blend clinging to their clothes. A bottle in his hand, nearly empty and barely clasped in his fingers. Dangling precariously as he stumbles down the street.

He leans heavily on Hunk, who leans heavily on him. Another bottle dangles from Hunk's free hand. Neither of them can balance well, but it doesn't matter. They lean on each other. They stumble together. Their laughter mingles into the night. Sounding euphoric and young. So much younger than they are. So much younger than they feel. 

Takes him back to the days at the Garrison. Carefree and young. Before they knew better. 

Takes him back to the early days as a Paladin, looking for fights and finding them. 

Can't go back to yesterday, but they can pretend. 

They're not looking for a fight, but they don't say no when one arrives. When they stumble into a couple of young guns. Young kids. Trying to carve out a piece of the world for themselves. Not quite gangs. Just a pack of kids. One against the other. Picking fights on Paladin territory. 

He and Hunk stumble into the crossfire. They can't ignore it. They exchange wicked grins, eyes sparking with a thrill that he had feared would die. The ignition of adrenaline. The thrill of the fight. The exhaustion. The pain. The rush of victory that sails in the wake of every hit. It's a drug of its own. The fight.

Reminds him he's alive. Reminds him that he's not dead yet. Reminds him to keep going. 

He and Hunk dive into the fray. 

It ends quickly. The young are weak. Haven't built up the tolerance or the muscle memory. They get scared away quick once they realize who he and Hunk are. They scatter, leaving him and Hunk shouting after them. Laughter echoing around the streets to cover their retreating steps. 

He grabs his bottle, lifts it to his lips, but it's empty. So is Hunk's. He throws his first, watching it shatter against a brick wall. Hunk's follows right behind. 

He barely remembers grabbing Hunk’s earpiece and pressing the button before he hears the ringtone. Barely remembers who he's calling before he hears Pidge's voice in his ear. 

"What'd you want, loser?"

"Pidge!" he slurs, loud and boisterous. Laughter hedging his voice. Hunk echoes him, leaning close to his ear. Breath hot and smelling bitter with booze. "Is that special brew you and Coran working on done?"

There's a long pause. Or maybe that's just his head spinning. "You two are fucked up, aren't you?"

"Yup," he says, putting heavy emphasis on the pop. Leaning into Hunk's shoulder. 

"I can't feel my toes, Pidge," Hunk says loudly, giggling on the tail end. "My face is numb."

"Dude, that's cause you took a heavy right hook to the jaw."

"Oh, yeah."

A heavy sigh from his earpiece. A fondness lingering in the exasperation. "Yeah, it's done. Get your asses to my apartment. Hopefully I'll be buzzed by the time you get here because I am _not_ dealing with you two sober."

"Aw yeah, trio party!" Lance throws a fist in the air, nearly tipping both his and Hunk's balance. "Just like old times."

He knows he hasn't been around much anymore. Not with Keith in his life. Not with the way he's been single mindedly obsessed. Knowing there was a timer on their time together. He hadn't acknowledged it, but he'd known. He'd always known. Their time was limited. And he had tried to soak up as much as he could. 

So long. So nice to know you. 

But this night is far from over, and it's time to get carried away.

* * *

_Lips on lips, hot and heaving. Messy and uncoordinated. Desperate and demanding._

_Hands on flesh. Fingers bruising. Blindly groping along maps that they already know by heart. Bodies they already know better than their own. Desperate for more. Trying to memorize more. To take it all in. To feel every last dip and curve._

_Hips, moving together in sync. The fast and hard snap. The eager and slow grind. Feeling everything. Feeling too much. Spread open and taking everything. Bruising. Taking. Giving._

_They pull each other close. Closer. Can't get close enough. Getting more frantic as the night wears on. Getting more desperate as time ticks by in a slow drag. A warning, looming over them. They pull at each other. Press close. Taking everything they can with tongue and teeth, hands and lips, hips unrelenting, bodies grinding. They give everything that they are._

_In the times of rest, they breathe together. Sharing it. Sharing soft and delicate touches. Treating the other like porcelain. Like glass. Eager to feel but desperate not to break. Fragile moments, a breath away from shattering. Silence between them. Words too heavy to be trusted. Locked eyes all they have to communicate. That, and the tender touches they dare not put a voice to._

_Then they're at it again. And again. Take each other. Bruise each other. Create a physical ache that echoes and bleeds into the days to come. To make it harder to forget. To serve as a reminder. As a thin thread still keeping them connected._

_They go again. And again._

_One more time for old time's sake._

_One more bend before they break._

_He wakes up the next morning alone. Bed cold and cast in the dull reddish gray light of the sun. Dust motes lighting and drifting. Making him feel like he's underwater. Drowning in a light that makes him look sallow. Bringing his bruises into a painful light. Making him ache._

_The night is over._

_Can't go back to yesterday._

* * *

Sunrise is a strange time. 

It starts out slow. It starts by chasing away the shadows. It starts by leaking gray into the darkness, bringing it to light. So slowly that at first, you don't notice it. So slowly that it's not quite noticeable until it's already too late. So slowly that by the time you realize what's happening, sunrise is already here. Daylight is already bleeding into the night. Shadows are already growing thin and the sun is mere inches from the horizon. 

He thinks it's a lot like falling in love. 

And just like falling in love, the sunrise brings everything to a sharp and vulnerable relief. It shows the bags under his eyes. It shows the bruises on his skin. It makes his eyes ache, swollen and puffy from the tears he's shed in the safety of the night. 

It reminds him that no matter what magic the night may have, he's still just human. He can still break.

He sits on the balcony. Back to the concrete wall. The air has a chill. A dew that clings to his skin. It tastes thin and crisp, with the slight acidic edge that lingers on his tongue. It's strangely quiet. Eerily so. With the night traffic lessoned as people seek refuge in their homes. Hiding from the sun. Hiding from reality. Hiding their vulnerabilities away. 

There's still the buzz of electricity. Still the hum of the city. Like a pulse. A sign of life. But there's no traffic. No din of voices. 

A strange sort of stillness in the heart of the city as the sunrises. 

As it chases the darkness away. As it lingers on the smog hanging like a thick cloud over the city, showing it for the pollution it really is. Drowning out the neon lights and making their brilliant colors sickly. Showing how broken the signs are. Showing the cracks in the buildings and the rust on the metal.

Lance watches it happen with rapt attention and strange disassociation. 

It's been a long time since he's watched the sunrise. 

Pidge and Hunk are fast asleep. Both of them passed out, bodies pushed to their limit. Raised high, hard and fast, and then crashed blissfully into oblivion. A laugh still on the tip of their tongues. 

Lance was just as fucked up, but the crash wouldn't come. 

So now here he is, out on the balcony, body still buzzing as everything works through his system, but getting more and more sober as the city slowly bleeds into day.

His body feels awful. Battered and bruised. Sick and dizzy. It's been a long time since he's been this fucked up. Had such a bad high. Since he couldn't sleep. 

He just wanted one more hit for old time's sake. 

Just wanted to go back to yesterday.

It takes him a moment to recognize the buzzing at his wrist. To realize that it's not a phantom and not a hallucination. For his mind to catch up and sync to the sensations of his body. 

When he does recognize it, his heart clenches. 

His arm feels heavy as he lifts it. His jacket is gone, lost in the apartment somewhere. He bends a knee, resting his forearm on it. Presses his thumb to the wristband for the quick print scan. 

It lights up. Throwing up the holoscreen. Revealing a familiar name. 

He reaches for his ear only to find— nothing. Right. He crushed that earpiece. He'll need to get Hunk to make him a new one. Guess the audio from his wristband will have to be enough. Good thing he's alone. 

His hand pauses in the air. Fingers hovering over the holoscreen. Over the answer and decline options. Keith's name is big and bold across the screen. The wavelength shifts every time his wristband vibrates. 

If he answers, he knows he'll see Keith. Knows it'll open a video feed. He'll see that beautiful, stupid face of his. The wound will be opened once more, forcing him to heal it all over again. He'll bleed, but he can't help but think it'll be worth it in the end. 

He's addicted. He wants another hit. Another dose. 

He can't say so long. Can't say so nice to know you. 

Can't go back to yesterday, but that doesn't stop him from trying.

One more time for second chances.

One more time as if they planned it. 

Chest tight. Acid on his tongue. A thrill buzzing in his veins, reminding him that he's alive. Reminding him why he enjoys being alive. A stomach full of lead. A heart full of butterflies. Balancing on a tightrope with only the illusion of a safety net. 

He answers the call.

One last time for old time's sake.

One more bend before they break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> __________________
> 
> Go listen to the song! Go go. 
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
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	6. Track 6: Life of the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking about you, how you level me out sometimes  
> When I'm out on my head, and I don't wanna face it  
> You said it's all for a reason, what the fuck is the reason now?  
> Coming down, bring me back, I'm the life of the party  
> I'm the life of the party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments give me life. Thank you so much for making my day. I hope every update makes yours <33
> 
> Happy reading!

Lance hums to himself. Toneless. stumbling along the ghost of a melody he barely remembers. 

The slim neck of the bottle is smooth beneath his fingertips. It's a sensation he focuses on, convinced that if he doesn't, he'll lose his wavering grip on it altogether. There's still several shots worth swirling around the bottom. It'd be a waste to let the bottle shatter. 

Waste not, want not, and all that shit. 

The music still thrums through the building. The pounding bass a familiar heartbeat throughout the club. He can feel it pulsing through the soles of his boots as he stumbles across the room. Picking his way as carefully as he can when his own vision is dragging and his head is swimming. 

Bodies litter the floor. Draped haphazardly across the furniture. Couches and tables alike. Not even the pool table is safe. Some of them are still awake. Still conscious. They shift. Writhe. Voices slurred and muffled by their own tongues. Most are unmoving. Bodies and minds heavy and leaden. 

Smoke fills the room in a haze. Lazy drifting clouds that hang suspended in the still air. Catching the light and creating translucent shapes. Disturbed and swirling as he passes through them. 

It's one of the upper rooms at their club. Above everything. A bigger room separated from the club itself. More secure. With it's own bar. A meeting room. A place for more private parties. A place for them to securely let clients try out new products. A place for their gang to gather and for new recruits to make an impression on the Paladins. A place where the party is all business.

Not that it stops anyone from getting fucked up. That's part of the business, after all. 

And once upon a time, he was the life of the party. 

He supposes he still is, given that he's the only one still up and moving. 

He picks his way over the bodies. Around all these people passed out on the floor of the room. 

He doesn't know half of them, but they all want to know him.

He's a Paladin. _The Blue Paladin_. The sharp shooter. One of the inner circle. One of Allura's closest friends and confidants. An original Paladin. A founder of this whole thing.

He's the life of the party. 

He makes his way to the bar, nearly tripping over someone and stumbling into one of the stools before haphazardly climbing up onto it. He plants the bottle firmly on the bar top, the sharp sound muted by his own swimming head and the pulse of music below him. 

The music will continue all night. The club will remain open, lights flashing and air humid with sweat, until daybreak. Like the rest of the city, Voltron goes still at dawn. 

Those around him may be too fucked up to continue, but he'll go until the sun rises. He'll be the life of the party. 

There's no bartender. He fucked off to who knows where. Lance leans across the bar, blindly searching below it. Numb fingers groping until he feels a familiar box. Pulls it out and settles back on his stool. 

It fits in the palm of his hand. Small. Metal. Non-assuming. Seam running around it but no visible way of opening the lid. There's a fingerprint scanner on the top and a slit on one of the sides. Makes sure only the right people can dispense the product.

He sets the box down, lazily flicking it back and forth across the smooth surface of the bar with a couple fingers. Nails of his other hand idly tapping against the glass neck of his bottle. 

His eyes drift upward, gaze dragging over the room as his mind swims, sluggishly trying to keep up. There's a clock on the wall. Bright and neon green. Still an hour or two from dawn. 

There are people passed out around him, but the party isn't over yet. 

It's four in the morning, and he's just trying to fix himself. Trying to keep himself from unraveling. Trying to keep the cracked pieces of himself from shattering like glass across the floor. 

What the hell should he do? He can't break. He's the life of the party. 

He puts his thumb to the scanner atop the metal box. Not quite remembering when he looked away from the clock. The scanner comes to life. A line of light reading his print up and down. It flashes green, once, before the scanner goes dim. A thin sheet is dispensed from the slit on the side. 

He takes it. An inch square. Thin enough to be translucent. Appearing fragile and yet strangely durable. Almost the texture of gelatin. Red. Pidge calls this mix Berry Bonanza. He once asked what berries. She asked him if it even mattered. 

He takes a long pull from his bottle. Smooth against his numb lips. A burn at the back of his throat. An ache where he swallows. He slams the bottle down, wiping a trickle of liquid from his chin with the back of his hand. 

Then he places the hit of quint on his tongue. 

Sits there and revels in the Berry Bonanza as it starts to dissolve. 

Hums softly to himself, focused more on the vibrations than the phantom melody that drifts through his hazy mind in fractured bursts. 

He holds the bottle between his hands, focused on the smoothness beneath his fingertips. Lets himself cling to the sensation. Afraid that if he doesn't, he'll shatter. 

He can't lose himself. 

He's the life of the party. 

* * *

He wants to say he doesn't know how he got here. But the truth remains that he does. 

Crouched over some Galra thug. Not even a ranking officer of their gang. Just some street kid. Some grunt. Some pusher. Not even a dealer, but some low grade idiot paid to run the quint between sellers. 

The kid cries out as Lance digs his knee in further. Feeling the notches of his spine. Pushing him into the cracked concrete. It's probably more out of shock and frustration than pain. He's here to make a point. Scare him off the expanding Blade territory. Not hurt the kid. 

He's probably not that much younger than Lance, but he looks it. Has an air of youth and inexperience that ages him down. Doesn't have any of the rough edges Lance is used to.

He holds one of the kid's hands behind his back. Just above where his knee digs into his spine. Wrist twisted at an uncomfortable angle. The kid’s other hand is curled into a fist on the concrete. Knuckles bruised and cracked. 

As Lance starts digging through his pockets with his free hand, he can feel the body beneath him relax. Feels the fight leak out of him and dissolve into the night. 

What's he gonna do against a Paladin? Lance caught him off guard, runnin' through territory he shouldn't be in. Disarmed him. Kicked his ass for good measure. Has his faced pinned to the asphalt. 

Kid's lucky Lance is merciful. Lucky he's not on Paladin territory. Lucky Lance isn't here for him, but what he's carrying. 

Lance hums as he finds what he's looking for. Feels the faux leather pouch. "Mhmm, there you are." He pulls it out, holding it up to watch the flickering neon light play off the worn and fading plastic leather. 

He lets go of the kid's wrist, but keeps his knee pressed into his back as he snaps the pouch open. Opens up the accordion folds to peer inside. Each fold holds a vacuum sealed plastic bag, keeping the precious contents from getting wet from the near constant drizzle that falls over the city. Each one filled with little circles of quint sheets. All of them a sickly yellow. 

"Looks like I caught you at the start of your rounds. Got a full load here."

He snaps the pouch shut, tucking it into an inner pocket of his jacket before leaning down. The kid winces as Lance's knee digs in deeper. Flinches as Lance roughly pats his cheek. He chuckles darkly. "Better luck next time. I suggest leaving the Empire before they take this loss out of your hide. Heard the Blade can be mighty generous to Empire defects. Better than you'll get anywhere else."

He stands then, stepping back. Straightening his jacket and rolling his neck until it cracks. The kid scrambles to his feet, whipping around to face him. Eyes narrowed in caution. Expression wary as he eases away. 

Lance shifts his jacket, showing off the gun holster strapped to his thigh. The kid's eyes dart to it quickly. Lance sharply jerks his head to the side. "Get outta here before I lose my patience."

The kid runs. Footsteps fading into the night. Into the buzz and crackle of advertisements around them. Into the rush of hover traffic above. 

Lance waits till he's gone before turning. Striding confidently back to his bike. But as he swings his leg over good ol' Blue and settles onto her familiar seat, the pleasant tingle of the fight wears off. Sours into something cold and leaden in his gut.

Cause as much as he'd love to deny it, he knows why he's here. Knows it wasn't a coincidence that he had caught a Galra runner. He'd spent damn near two hours waiting in the drizzling rain, shivering from more than just cold. Waiting on a route he'd known the Galra grunt would take. 

Because Pidge has cut him off from their own quint supply. Says he's using too much. Says he has a problem. 

She doesn't understand. No shit he has a problem. One giant Keith shaped problem and one giant Keith shaped hole in his chest. He's just trying to fix himself. Needs to get a fix for himself. 

He pulls out the pouch. Snaps it open and pulls out one of the sealed plastic bags. Holds it up to the light. Watches the pink and purple lights shine through the murky yellow of the quint. 

He knows it'll taste like piss. At this point, he doesn't care.

He's trapped. Caught. Stuck. Somewhere in between who he used to be and who he'll be tomorrow. When the quint hits his tongue and the champagne blows his mind. 

Pidge thinks he's addicted to quint, but she's wrong. He's addicted to the thrill of it all. Always has been. The thrill of some gutter kid getting into the Garrison. The thrill of a firecracker romance. The thrill of dropping back down to the lower streets. The thrill of being a Paladin. Thrill of the fight. The drugs. The life. 

The thrill of Keith, wild and chaotic. A wildfire that swept through his veins and left his chest charred. 

He was addicted to Keith, and now he's gone. Now he needs a new addiction. A new thrill. Something— _anything—_ to make him feel alive again. To make him feel _something_. To cut through the numbness and the pain that pulse in alternating waves, catching his heart on his ribs and shredding it to pieces. 

But thrills don't come for free. He's learned that much. A price you gotta pay for dreams. For illusions. For moments, no matter how fake, where things feel okay. 

It's the price he pays to be the life of the party. 

* * *

The bass pulses through him, drowning out his own heartbeat. Replacing it. Pulling his strings as the music sings through his veins. Rhythm pulling at his body. He's a slave to it. 

He closes his eyes because it's all become too much. The blur of the flashing strobe lights. The writhing of the bodies around him. His vision drags, and his mind swims. So he keeps his eyes shut. Ignores it all. Shuts it away. Focuses on the music. On the pleasant buzz of alcohol that swims in his veins. On the tingle of numbness biting at his limbs and the lingering sour taste of Galra quint on his tongue. 

It shouldn't matter that Keith isn't here anymore. He spent more days in this life without Keith than with him. Spent more nights in this club, more nights as a Paladin, while he was riding solo. 

Then Keith comes crashing back into his life, carves himself out a niche in Lance's chest, and then blows right the fuck back out of town. 

Leaving him alone. Again.

He should be used to it, but he's not. He should be numb to it, but he's not. He shouldn't care, but he does. He should be able to forget Keith, but he can't. 

Before Keith, he was the life of the party. Always at the center of it all. Known amongst their clientele. Known on the streets. Even among his friends, he was the life of the party. 

Now Keith's gone, and Lance feels like he's losing his balance. Swirling away from the center of this life and losing himself in the outer reaches of this chaos. Losing himself to an ever expanding void. No longer tethered as he had once been. No longer grounded in himself. 

He used to be so sure of who he is. Used to know exactly what he wanted.

Now he's not so sure.

Keith left him shaken. Tether severed. Ground shattered beneath him. Alone and drifting.

He used to be the life of the party, but who the fuck is he now?

Somewhere in between who he used to be who he'll be tomorrow. 

In a sea of strangers, he can't find himself anymore.

* * *

He sits high on a ledge. One of Keith's favorite perches. A newer building with older architecture. Lets one foot dangle while the other props up on the edge, knee bent. He leans back, one arm hooked over his knee, joint hanging from between his fingers. Smoke trailing up to dissipate into the city haze. 

His other hand rests on the stone beside him. Inches from an unopened bottle. He swiped it from the club. Hasn't opened it yet. Feels the need to like an ache. Feels his throat parched for a drink. 

But... it doesn't feel right. Feels like a hollow act. A habit. A cycle. The buzz no longer feels good. The thrill is no longer enough. Nothing is enough. 

He tilts his head back against the concrete, eyes lidded as he stares up at the passing hover traffic. Fancier hovercrafts up here. Where the richer live. Here on the cusp of the higher and lower city. 

His eyes watch, but his mind is distant. 

He keeps thinking about Keith. How he levels him out sometimes. When he's out of his head, and he doesn't want to face it. 

He could use a dose of that right about now. Another hit of whatever it is about Keith that makes him so addicting. Another fix of whatever has him burrowed so deep in Lance's chest. 

He lifts his hand, abandoning the bottle, and lifts his arm high, letting his sleeve drop to reveal his wristband. Propping the joint between his lips, he opens up the holoscreen. Flips through his messages to the familiar contact. The haunting name. 

Hits call.

Watches it ring. 

Feels the tension winding tight in his chest. 

Watches the line end abruptly.

" _Fuck_." He grits his teeth, letting his hand drop, gripping the stone. Knuckles white as he runs the fingers of his other hand through his hair. Pulling on his roots. " _Fuck!_ "

He grabs the bottle and hurls it out over the city. Watches it sail through the haze. Watches the flashing neon lights catch on the glass as it falls. Watches it disappear into the darkness below. 

He can't see it. Can't hear it. But he swears he can feel it shatter.

He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a long drag before pulling the joint from his lips. Holds it until it burns before letting out the breath. Cracks his eyes to watch the smoke rise and fade into the smog. 

Keith's been ignoring his calls lately. He's not an idiot. He's not just missing them, he's cancelling them. He's not responding to messages. He doesn't call back. 

The whole game of pretend? The whole stay in touch thing? It worked for a while. A couple weeks. But it was only ever an illusion. A false hope. A lie they both desperately clung to. Two addicts unwilling to give it up. 

But it seems like Keith's done just that. Given him up. Given up... whatever they had between them. 

The last time Lance had gotten ahold of him, he had asked why Keith had been so dodgy lately. He'd confronted him about it, but he only got silence in reply. Silence and a sigh. A whispered, " _It's all for a reason._ "

Well, what the fuck is the reason, now?

When the joint is nothing but ash, he climbs down from his perch. Heads back to the club. He's the life of the party.

* * *

He stands on the balcony high above the dance floor below. On the Paladin level of Voltron. He leans against the railing, hunched over with his forearms resting atop it. Hands clasped in front of him. He gazes out over the sea of strangers down below him. Writhing and colliding, shifting and swirling.

He used to crave being down there. Used to love losing himself in that ocean of chaos. 

Now he can't find himself anymore. 

Maybe because he's looking for who he used to be, and he's not quite sure who he'll be tomorrow. 

He's not sober. Can't quite handle being completely clean when the shadows of the night press in on him and the neon lights illuminate the hollow in his chest. But he's not gone either. Just a light buzz. Just a few hits of the calming mix Coran's come up with. Not enough to drag his vision, but enough to make his thoughts wander. To make him feel light and floating above the swirling sea below.

All those years ago. When he, Hunk, and Pidge stumbled across Allura in the lower city. When they got caught up in the turf war. When Allura offered them a chance to make real change, and they all decided to leave the Garrison to join her. 

It's so hard to imagine who he'd be if he had walked away. If he had gone back to the Garrison. If he had fulfilled his childhood dreams.

Never know what it's like to be the life of the party.

But... 

Here's the thing.

He's not sure if he _wants_ to be the life of the party anymore. It's been fun. It's been great. He felt like he finally found a place where he belonged. 

And then Keith came back, and Lance changed again. He didn't notice it at first. Small things. A small shift in how he thinks. In what he wants. He used to know exactly what he wanted, where he needed to be, what needed to be done.

Now he's not so sure. 

He's trapped somewhere in between who he used to be and who he'll be tomorrow. 

At a crossroads. He can either fix himself up. Go back to how things have been for years. Who he used to be. Who he knows he can be. The life of the party.

Or he can let himself crack. Let himself figure out what version of himself is struggling to break through that mask. Through the cocoon. Doesn't know what he'll find. Doesn't know if it's worth it. But... he wants to find out. Wants to see who he'll be tomorrow. 

He can't find himself anymore, but he's starting to realize that's because he's not in the places he used to be. He's changed, and he hasn't wanted to face it. Because it's the unknown. Uncertain. But... he thinks he might be ready to face it. 

Keith isn't with him anymore, but he still lingers in his heart. In a crevice he carved out for himself in Lance's chest. Lance can feel it beating. Aching. Pulsing. Calling out for him in silent pleas. 

He doesn't know if it's Keith's voice or his own. Doesn't think it matters. 

He can't find himself anymore, but he thinks he knows where to look.

* * *

It's four in the morning, and he's trying to fix himself. 

He weaves through the bodies crowding up the Paladin lounge. Swaying with drink and who knows what else. Laughter and voices fading into the pulse of the club's heartbeat. 

There's no bottle in his hands. They're shoved into his pockets, curled into fists to keep from picking at his nails. The only buzz in his veins is that of anxious energy. The thrill of potential. Of excitement. Strung taut with the quivering tension of anticipation. The song of hope humming through his chest. 

It's the thrill of action. When the decision is made and being put into motion, energy pooling and colliding as it gathers with no outlet. 

He steps up onto the dais at the center of the lounge. Nods to the security guards keeping watch. Collapses onto an empty couch, crossing one leg over the other and stretching his arms out along the back of it. 

His friends look at him then. Allura, the Princess, curled up in an elaborate and comfortable armchair. Pidge, the Green Paladin, curled cross legged in the corner of the couch across from him, a tablet on her lap. Hunk, the Yellow Paladin, sitting next to her, talking about whatever's on her screen, a drink cradled in his fingers and his arm slung over his girlfriend's shoulders. Shay, The Rock. Matt, The Rebel, stretched out in the armchair across from Allura. 

They all stare at him. He stares back. Making eye contact with each one of them before speaking. 

"I'm going to find Keith."

It's not a question. It's said with absolute confidence. His decision is already made. 

It's so hard to imagine who he'd be if he let Keith walk away. He doesn't want to see that version of himself. He wants to know who he'll be tomorrow. Wants to see the version of himself who doesn't let the man he loves get away. 

"We know you are, buddy." Hunk's grin is wide. Shay's smile echoing it.

Pidge groans, head rolling back. "Oh my god, _finally_."

"We figured you would," Matt says, smile not unkind. "We were just waiting to see how long it would take."

"We took bets." Pidge's eyes are back on her tablet, fingers moving quickly.

Lance lifts a brow. Somehow, he's not surprised. "Who won?"

"I did, as did Pidge," Allura says, smile warm as she unfurls in the armchair. She sits up straighter. Legs crossed under her. Arms resting on her knees. There's a harder glint to her eyes as her smile fades. One that he's come to associate with business. One that speeds up his pulse and burns in his blood with the promise of action. "Unfortunately, I cannot go with you. I need to remain here and keep control of our territory. But I'll do anything I can to help."

"We'll keep the streets cleared while you're gone." Matt gives him a thumbs up and a cheeky grin before lifting a joint to his lips. 

Hunk leans forward, setting his glass on the table at the center of their seats. "And Pidge and I are coming with you." 

Lance blinks, frown pursing his lips. "You... you don't have to do that. There's a lot to take care of here, and I don't expect you to go running off with me after my baggage."

"Oh shut it," Pidge says, leaning forward and holding his gaze. Fierce fire burning behind her irises. Catching on the blue glow of the Paladin lounge. Turning the flames to ice. "We were in the Garrison together. We became Paladins together. We're not gonna let you go running off into who the fuck knows what without us. We're going with you. End of story." She leans back once more, adjusting her glasses. "Besides, Keith's our friend, too."

Hunk nods. "You haven't heard from him in a while, and that means he's run into trouble."

Lance can't help the momentary ache in his chest. The frown he presses to keep his voice from shaking as he says, uncharacteristically soft, "How do you know he just doesn't want to talk to me anymore?"

There's a chorus of scoffs. A series of rolled eyes. "Lance, it's clear to all of us that Keith is absolutely enamored with you," Allura says, exasperation and amusement warring in her voice. 

"He'd follow you to the ends of the earth, and we know you'd do the same for him." Hunk kicks his feet up, propping them up on the table. "But you're both idiots, and we can't let you do it alone."

Lance feels his grin aching in his cheeks before he even registers the stretch of his lips. There's a burn behind his eyes. A bubbling in his chest. A warmth that starts to fill that numb hollow. "You guys are the best."

"We know," Hunk says.

"Obviously," Allura says.

"I don't know where he went," Lance says, leaning forward. He rests his elbows on his knees, fingers weaving together, cracking his knuckles. "He wouldn't tell me. Probably thought I'd follow him—”

Pidge scoffs. "Like that would stop you."

Lance's grin sharpens at the edges. Lopsided. Wicked and catching in his eyes. "But the Blades probably know. They're the ones who gave him the info on Shiro to begin with—”

"Shiro?" Matt sits up straight, brow furrowing.

Lance blinks, turning to frown at Matt. "Yeah? He's the one Keith's been looking for. That's why he left the Garrison and joined the Blades. They got new info for him, and he left." He shakes his head, feeling familiar regret sour in his gut. "I couldn't stop him. Not when I know how important Shiro is to him. But... I wish I had gone with him."

There's a hand on his arm. Warm and comforting. He turns to find Allura next to him. Shifted to the couch from her chair. She smiles, and he feels her confidence like a balm. "It's okay, Lance. You'll bring him back."

"I had no idea," Matt says, shaking his head. Lips pursed into a frown. "Shiro's the one who got me and dad out. We were all kidnapped together. Held prisoner."

"No shit?" 

"No shit. Shiro got us out but... at the cost of his own life. At least, we thought so. He's still alive?"

Lance nods. "According to Keith's sources, yeah."

"Wait...," Hunk says, eyes narrowed as the gears behind them turn. "You said it was the Galra who kidnapped you all those years ago."

Matt nods. "Yeah."

"So... the Empire are the ones who've had Shiro all this time?"

"Yeah, sounds like it."

" _Fuck_." Lance's curled fist comes down on his knee. Teeth clenched as his jaw tightens. "He's been under our nose this _whole time?_ "

"No, they've got him somewhere else."

Everyone turns to Pidge, but it's Lance who speaks. "How'd you know that?"

"Because I put a tracker on Keith's bike before he left." At Lance's open mouthed stare, she rolls her eyes. "I wasn't going to tell you I knew where he was until you decided you wanted to know. You needed to figure out what you wanted."

He feels like he should be annoyed. Feels like he should be mad she didn't tell him. Instead, he finds himself smiling. Small and genuine. A warmth blooming in his chest. "Thanks, Pidge."

She seems just as startled as he feels. Still, she brushes past it. Shakes her head and moves on. She puts her tablet on the table, tapping a few things until it throws up a holographic display. "Anyway, point is. I've been keeping an eye on his tracker, and he's been well outside the city. It seems the Empire's influence expands a lot farther than we thought."

The display is a map. A zoomed out map of their area. Their own city is on one side, and it encompasses several of the cities around them, as well as the wastes. The dark lands. 

Lance's eyes fixate on one city in particular. On a blinking red dot. Feels his heart race and his pulse flutter in his veins. Feels a lump in his throat, making the air hiss out of his lungs when his chest squeezes. 

_Keith_.

* * *

Blue rumbles beneath him. A steady purr that vibrates through his bones. A bass line to the drumbeat of his heart. She hovers just inches above the ground. Engines on but not fully elevated yet. He straddles the seat, leaning back as he slides his sleeve back down over his wristband.

He'd tried one last call to Keith. No answer, as anticipated. Doesn't matter. He's going to find him anyway. 

"I'm sending Keith's tracking info to your coms," Pidge says from where she's perched on her own hover bike. Much like Blue, but with green accents. Smaller, with some different gadgets attached. "You should be able to pull up the coordinates on your goggles."

"Thanks, Pidgeon," Lance says, reaching for the goggles perched atop his head and pulling them down over his eyes. Settles the worn leather padding against his skin. 

The lenses crackle to life, doing a quick scan of his eyes to adjust. With a few minuscule eye movements, he shuffles through the commands to pull up the map and place it in the upper left corner of his left lens. The route is already marked. 

Not only will the goggles protect their eyes on the long, open drive, but they're also fitted with night vision tech, which will come in handy once they're out of the city limits and in the dark wastes.

He adjusts his gloves, flexing his fingers before he makes sure his jacket is zipped up against the biting chill. "Everyone fueled up?"

"Check," Hunk echoes. 

"Pidge, got all the shit you need?"

"Check."

"We've got funds?"

"Check. Thanks, Allura."

"No problem. You can always call me to wire you more."

"We got the supplies? All packed?"

"Check!" Coran announces, snapping to attention as he raps a knuckle on the metal cargo hold of Hunk's larger bike. "There should be enough food and water to last you several weeks, as well as some things I thought might come in handy."

"Thanks, Coran." Lance turns to where Matt and Allura stand between his and Pidge's bikes. "You guys sure you'll be okay?"

"No one will dare to touch us, per usual." Matt leans away from hugging his sister, shooting a lopsided grin toward Lance. "They won't even know you're gone for at least a week or two. Even then, we have the Blades backing us up now. You just focus on bringing our boys home. Both of them." He gives Lance a little mock salute that Lance mirrors. 

"You got it."

"Be careful out there, Lance." Allura rests a hand on his leg, smile hedged with worry. She lowers her voice, private between them. "Take care of the others. They'll look to you for guidance. They trust you. You're running this mission."

"I know," He says, putting his hand over hers and squeezing lightly. "I'll take care of them. I'll bring us all home." She smiles, full of pride and trust. He can't help the playful curve of his lips. The teasing, "How about a kiss for good luck, princess?"

She rolls her eyes, smile still on her lips as she slaps his leg and steps away. "Go get one from your prince."

He laughs, reaching to the bundle of tight cloth around his neck to pull the fabric up over the lower half of his face, to protect it from the wind. "Gladly." He leans forward, fingers wrapping around the handles and revving his engine. "Everyone ready?"

"Roger."

"Let's go."

Lance kicks his bike up first. Taking to the air before sending it a burst of gas that has him rocketing forward. Hears the roar of Pidge and Hunk behind him. Leads the charge as he takes off down the city streets. Headed north. Out of the central city, through the slums, and past the motorway. Past the outskirts. Into the wastes. 

He heads into the uncertain darkness. Leaving the glow of the only city he's ever known behind. Away from who he used to be. Toward who he'll be tomorrow. 

It's four in the morning, and he's determined to fix himself. 

Determined to find the piece of himself that he's been missing. 

He's done being the life of the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> __________________
> 
> Go listen to the song! Go go. 
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
> **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	7. Track 7: Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now there's a ghost in the back of this room  
> And I don't like it  
> I fall asleep with my covers pulled up  
> And try to fight it  
> I gotta say it's hard to be brave  
> When you're alone in the dark  
> I told myself that I wouldn't be scared  
> But I'm still having nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all staying safe and healthy. 
> 
> Let's see what Keith has been up to and how he's handling it. Happy reading <33

Keith isn't new to new places. His entire life has been spent in new places. New rooms. Temporary spaces. Never staying somewhere long enough to call it a home. He's only gotten close a few times.

With his dad. With Shiro. At the Garrison. With Lance. 

More often than not, home has been with people, not a place. So beds? Disposable. Rooms? Temporary shelter. A place to stay. A place to rest. A place to take stock, prepare, and then move on. 

He's been moving on a lot. He's good at it. He's good at welcoming the new and forgetting the old. He's good at letting go, never turning around, facing forward. 

So why is he having such a hard time adjusting  _ now? _

He knows why, but he doesn't want to admit it. 

He's let go once, why can't he now?

Probably because he's gotten a taste of something good. Something he hasn't had in a long, long time. A taste of a place, of people, who could be home. But he had left, and there's no reason for him to be dwelling on it now. He's already accepted he's not meant for a home. He's not sure he deserves one. 

They tried to stay connected, but that had fizzled. It’s better this way. That’s what he tells himself. Better for him. Better for Lance.

This shitty hotel is marginally better than the shitty abandoned buildings he'd been staying in before. One could even say it was better than the Blades’ base, if only for the fact that he has some illusion of privacy. 

He's out of the rain. He has a room that's dark. He has a bed. The sheets smell like stale chemicals and the floor has piss stains, but he's slept in worse. 

So why can't he sleep?

Why can't he get comfortable?

Why can't he just  _ let go? _

Paper thin walls. Angry words from down the hall. He can hear the voices. Rising and falling. A tide of emotion. Wordless through the walls, but no less potent for it. 

It digs up old memories. A little house on a perfect little hill. A child with a million ways to feel. Caught up in a hurricane.

Their life wasn't pristine, but it was just short of a fairytale. It wasn't rich, but it was  _ theirs _ . His home. The one he shared with his dad. The one where they stayed, just in case she came back. The one with the ghosts of memories that were just as painful as they were comforting. 

Then the voices started. His dad always sent him to his room when they started. The shouting. The arguing. Words lost as he pulled the blankets over his head and squeezed his eyes shut. But the emotion was still there. Still strong. Still made his heart race and his fear spike. 

What was worse was the silence that followed. The tears he found on his father's face. 

It happened a lot, and it always preceded change. Being forced out of their home before it was demolished. Being forced from apartment to apartment. His dad losing job after job. The landlords. The drug dealers. The shady people his dad got mixed up with in an attempt to keep them afloat. 

He heard the shouting through paper thin walls the night he found out his dad wouldn't be coming home.

He heard it in his foster homes before he was sent back out on the streets. 

He heard it at the Garrison, after he'd get in fights with the other cadets. 

He heard it among the Blade before they told him leads had gone sour. 

He thinks about it every now and again. Regrets and what ifs hanging heavy in his chest.

Now there's a ghost in the back of this room, and he doesn't like it. He falls asleep with his covers pulled up, buried in a mattress that's stiff and surrounded by the smell of dried sweat. Tries to fight it. Fight the urge to look at his ghost. Fights the goosebumps on the back of his neck and the prickle of anxiety that runs beneath his skin.

He can't face it. He doesn't think he's strong enough. And he needs to be strong. For Shiro. For himself. He can't afford to break. 

But it's hard to be brave when he's alone in the dark. He told himself that he wouldn’t be scared, but he's still having nightmares. 

* * *

The place is too quiet, and there's an itch of dread beneath his skin. But he creeps forward anyway. Mask pulled up to cover the lower half of his face. Goggles pulled over his eyes to help him see in the dark. 

And it's dark. That's another strange thing. He may be on the outskirts of this city, but even the outer edges are thickly lined with neon lights. They ooze out from cities, flickering and cracked, echoing into the darkness of the wastes, marking the edges of civilization. 

But here, there's a patch of darkness. The signs are all out. Shadows stretch, haunting and menacing. He's not used to absolute darkness. Nights are lit far more than the day, neon glass shining brighter than the sun can provide through the haze of smog. 

It's eerie. 

He doesn't like it.

He presses onward. 

Crawls through the hallways of the old factory. He's not sure what they used to make, but there's a layer of dust and grime on all the machinery that indicates that it hasn't been used in a long, long time. 

There's a thinner layer of dust everywhere else that indicates no one has been here at all in a few weeks. Maybe even a month.

Which means he missed them.  _ Again _ .

Gritting his teeth, he presses his thumb to the gemstone on his dagger. The energy blade shoots out with a flash, fighting the shadows with its familiar violet glow. He's tried every room in this god forsaken place. All except for one. When he reaches it, he can feel the fragile ember of hope in his chest starting to go cold. 

He tries the door handle. Not locked, but jammed. He kicks it open, throwing his frustration and rage behind his body weight. It slams open, banging loudly against the wall and echoing throughout the empty space. 

Empty.

_ Again _ .

Another old lead. Another dead end. 

He straightens, runs his fingers through his hair, grips hard and pulls until he feels the sting at his roots. It helps distract him from the sting behind his eyes. It's not the first time he's been back to square one, but it's getting harder every time. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

_ Patience _ . He tells himself. He lets out the breath, feeling it waver. Watching it fog in the biting chill of the air. "Patience yields focus."

He sets to work. Another day, another job. He scours the factory for leads. Anything that might tell him where to look next. Where they might've gone. Where their other bases are. 

He pushes the sour edge of fear from his mind, burying it deep down inside himself. He can't dwell on it. Not now. He has to keep moving forward. He has to find Shiro. 

If he doesn't, if he can't, then he threw away his life for nothing.

* * *

" _ New sources confirm that the Coliseum has no set location _ ." 

Keith grits his teeth, feeling the ache in his jaw. The rain is heavy tonight, and the neon glow of nearby holographic billboards flickers off the downpour. It's obscure and dazzling. Ominous in its own way. It's driven most people inside. Especially given that the pollution in this city is bad enough to make the rain hurt. A light drizzle? Fine. A downpour? The water stings. 

He sits on his bike, just beneath an overhang. The street should be busy this time of night, but right now, its barren. The occasional person pushes through the sheets of rain like specters in the dark, shadowed by umbrellas that catch and reflect the flickering neon glow. 

One hand held out and open, the holographic display of a circle hovers above his palm. A thin line encircles the sphere, flatlined in Kollivan’s silence. 

Then the line wavers, sharp jumps at the clipped way Kollivan speaks. " _ Keith? Are you there?" _

"Yeah, I'm here," he sighs, running his free hand through his hair. "Just—  _ fuck _ . Okay, so that at least explains why all of our leads are always fucking dead ends."

_ "Indeed. It seems the Coliseum moves every few weeks. Or earlier, if their location is compromised." _

"Great. Just great. This information would've been great a month ago. Or years ago."

" _ You know better than most just how tight lipped Galra can be. The Empire keeps them loyal. Extracting secrets isn't an easy process." _

Keith scoffs lightly. A sharp exhale that could almost be considered a laugh. "Yeah? And how did you get this information?"

There's a pause, and then, " _ Antok is very good at extraction." _ It's said slowly and carefully, monotoned in just the right way to indicate that Kollivan actually finds humor in the answer. It's the closest thing he comes to making a joke. 

He wishes he could find more humor in it. Unfortunately, his frustration sours any bubbling amusement that might rise. "Right, so where should I go now?" 

And that's always the question isn't it? Where to now? Where to go next? Because he's always moving. Always looking for something. Too afraid to stop lest everything catch up to him. Afraid that if he stops, he'll never be able to start again. And people still need him.  _ Shiro _ still needs him. 

He tries not to think about what he'll do once he finds Shiro. 

He's spent too long moving, so long avoiding the ghosts clawing at his back. He's afraid if he stops, it'll all come crashing down. 

" _ Head north. Follow the road straight through the wastes. You'll pass a smaller town, keep going. Get to the next city." _

He closes his eyes. Lets out a long breath. "Right. Okay."

Time to keep moving. 

They say no goodbyes. No  _ good luck’s _ . No  _ stay safe’s _ . Their world is too dangerous for sentiments like that. For attachments. For pleasantries. Kollivan believes in Keith because of his abilities, and it's those skills that will carry him through. Skills he’s honed and trained through blood, sweat, and tears. Luck has nothing to do with it. And in this world, they're never safe. 

The hologram cuts out, and Keith closes his fist, turning his hand over. Blunt nails dig in around the chip, pulling to force the needles to release from his skin. He winces, but the pain is temporary. He's used to it anyway. Slipping the device back into an inner pocket of his jacket, he pulls his glove back on. 

He zips his jacket up tight and pulls his hood over his head. It's stiff enough and made to resist the wind. He pulls his cloth mask up over the lower half of his face, adjusting his goggles until they sit right. 

Leaning over, his grip tightens around the handlebars. He revs the engine, feeling the familiar hum vibrate through him. Ironically grounding, despite the fact that the bike hovers. 

The lenses of his goggles flash to life, indicators pointing out the obstacles directly in front of him and highlighting the street. He'll need the help in the low visibility. 

Steeling himself, locking his fears down away from the light of the neon glow, he takes off down the street. Rising high above the cracked pavement. Hovering just below the line of flying traffic. 

He heads north. Away from this city. Just another one left behind. Diving out into the pitch black darkness of the wastes. Moving toward the next city. 

He tries to leave the ghosts behind.

* * *

Another day. Another hotel room. Run down and covered in a coating of grime that's hidden by the flickering sign that hangs above. Inside, the dust and stains are hidden by the shadows. Blackout curtains hang over the window, letting in only a fraction of the daylight that's starting to rise over the city. 

Murky. Gray. Red. Hazy. 

The light streams across the room in a thin line, cutting across his face. He rests his hands against the cracked sink, leaning over it to get a good look at himself in the mirror. 

Smudged. Stained. Cracked. Covered in a thick layer of grime that he's pretty sure will never come out. Despite that, he can still see the dark marks beneath his eyes. Heavy and shadowed. 

He hasn't been sleeping. 

He's still having nightmares. 

The harsh light of day makes him look gaunt. His face hollow and sickly. Far too pale. By night, the dark splotches almost highlight his eyes. By day, they make him look just as he feels. Exhausted. Haggard. Pushing himself on the last straggling wisps of adrenaline. 

The marks Lance had left have already faded. 

He feels their absence as an ache in his chest, pulsing with each beat of his heart. 

If he closes his eyes, he can still feel them. Still feel Lance's teeth on his skin. The brush of his lips. The hot pant of his breath. The digging bite of his fingers. The drag of his nails. The way they desperately cling together. The betrayal in his eyes. The hurt he couldn't quite hide. The knowledge that Keith might have fucked up the one good thing he has in his life and he'll never be able to go back and hear Lance— touch Lance— feel Lance—

Sharp pain in his knuckles. The hot rush of blood over his skin. The bone deep ache of impact. 

He opens his eyes to find the mirror in front of him shattered. His own reflection cracked and splintered. A million fractals of himself. A million ways to feel.

His fist is shaking, cut and torn from the broken glass. He pulls it back slowly, wincing as pieces of the mirror fall. He knows he won't have to pay for it. Knows that the owners of this place probably won't even notice. Not with the cracks in the plaster and the stains already decorating the carpets. 

He steps away, pulling out his knife to cut a strip off the bed sheets. He doesn't know if they've been cleaned. He's pretty sure that even if they are, the stains are permanent at this point. 

He wraps the fabric around his knuckles, ignoring the sting as he moves to sit on the end of the bed. The mattress creaks and groans under his weight. 

He stares at the wall in front of him. There's a map of the city pinned there. Old and torn. He had found it in a twenty-four hour convenience store. Dug it up from a box in the back. People rarely deal in paper goods these days, but Keith prefers it. Likes to see it all laid out in front of him. 

He's marked all the possible locations for the Empire's current Coliseum location. There are a lot of abandoned warehouses and factories in this city. That's the most likely place they'd be. The Galra don't have enough influence here to have a building of their own to use. 

He'd scribbled out notes, pinned them to the map. A few bits of string connect some of the pins. 

His eyes burn, lids feeling far too heavy. His body aches. A bone deep exhaustion that no amount of caffeine and stimulants can shake. 

He wants to call Lance, but he doesn’t. Knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know what he’d say, and fears he might end up saying something he’ll regret. Things that will make his resolution to keep going break. Like  _ I need you. I miss you. I love you. _

So he stares. Focuses on what's in front of him.

He's wide awake. 

He's still having nightmares. 

He knows they'll haunt him again as soon as he closes his eyes. Nightmares with no real form. Half fused from memories and fears. His parents. His foster homes. Shiro.  _ Lance _ . Everyone, leaving him behind. Him, not being fast enough to save them. Not being strong enough. Not being  _ enough _ . Being more trouble than he’s worth.

He stares at the wall, but his thoughts are elsewhere. 

He needs to be looking ahead, and yet he can't stop dwelling on what he's left behind. 

Lance. Friends. A sense of belonging. A sense of adventure and stability all in one. A sense of  _ contentment _ . He'd been... happy. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Lance had made him feel like he hadn't needed to run anymore. Like he could  _ stop _ and everything would be fine. Like no matter how much the world spun around him, Lance would be there to hold him up. 

And then he'd left.

Again.

Abandoned Lance before Lance could abandon him.

Like everyone else. 

Because something that good can’t last anyway, can it?

He's wide awake. The nightmares can't get him. He's wide awake. Wide awake.  _ Wide awake. _

* * *

There's a ghost in the back of this room, and he doesn't like it. 

He falls asleep with his covers pulled up. Tries to fight it. 

But it's hard to be brave when he's alone in the dark. 

He wishes he had Lance. Misses the weight of his body on the mattress next to him. The warmth of his arms and the soothing rise and fall of his chest. The sound of his breath and the caress of it against Keith's skin. 

He knows he'll probably never have Lance again. 

Just another person in his life lost to the chaos. 

Just like his mother.

Just like his father.

Just like Shiro.

Only this time, Keith has no one to blame but himself. He was lucky that Lance gave him a second chance. He doubts he'll get a third. Lance said he would wait for him, but Keith knows better than to hope. 

Empty words. Paper thin walls. Torn. Fractured. Shattered. 

Lance had become his anchor in a storm. Keeping him grounded. Keeping him together. Bright and perfect. 

Now he's just another ghost that haunts Keith at night. Another regret. Another fear. Another loss.

Never did he think he'd be coming back around, digging up old memories. He always used to be the one to let things go. To bury his fears. He'd lock them away in a place he'd never find, never touch, where they'd never seen the light. Where they couldn't reach him. 

But they still haunt him.

He still thinks about them every now and again. 

He tells himself that he shouldn't be scared. He's not new to this lifestyle. He's not new to being alone. 

But he's still having nightmares. 

* * *

He crouches low, blade extended and held out in front of him. His Blade jacket is zipped up, glowing emblem brazen on the back. The coat tails flare around him, hiding the knives he has strapped to his legs, holsters and handles black to blend into his pants. There're a couple more surprises in his boots. A couple flash bombs and smoke grenades and EMPs strapped to the belts around his waist. 

His hood is pushed down to keep from blocking his peripheral vision, but the mask is still pulled up over the lower half of his face. The goggles are still covering his eyes. The lenses light up, giving him full vision in the dark of the warehouse. 

Crosshairs target the different people within sight, pulling up small pulsing dots to indicate their heart rates. He knows the markers will stay stuck to them no matter where they move, allowing Keith to keep track of their movements, even in the shadows. 

He's armed to the teeth.

He's ready. 

There are four Galra in front of him, but he can see two more if he tilts his head to the right. One more if he tilts his head to the left. He's pretty sure there are at least three behind him. 

His grip on his blade tightens. Outnumbered, but that's fine. Nothing he hasn't handled before. This is where he thrives. When the odds are stacked against him, and it's nothing but sheer determination and a wild instinct to fight to survive. 

It's how he's gotten this far. It's how he'll get further.

"Well, well, well," one of the men tuts. He idly swings a flail in his hands. The three balls spin next to him, chains clacking, energy sparking and sizzling over the spikes that decorate the tips. "You look a little lost, boy."

"Nope," Keith says, letting his lips curl into a sardonic smirk beneath his mask, letting it leak into his voice. Taunting. Watching the way the man's heart rate increases in his irritation. "This is exactly where I planned to be."

"We know you're alone. Blades never travel alone. Seems lost to me."

"Might as well give up. You're surrounded."

"Don't kill him. He'll make a good addition to the arena."

"You're outnumbered, boy."

Keith feels his lips curl wider. One of the Galra charges from the side. He ducks away from their swing, side stepping and sweeping his blade up to catch theirs, knocking it away. He grabs for a knife at his thigh, unsheathing it and throwing it in one smooth motion. It imbeds itself into the chest of the leader. 

He stumbles, flail coming to a stop at his side, looking down at the knife incredulously. It's sliced straight through the armor plate on his chest. The blade's metal surrounded by a thin layer of plasma, heated and melting the area around it. 

Keith sprints for him. Slides under him as he stumbles and swings in his surprise, clumsy and movements jerking. 

Back on his feet, Keith continues to run to the edge of the room, stopping when he reaches a control panel. The Galra behind him laugh.

"What're you gonna do? You can't hack that system, and breaking it will cause this whole place to go on lockdown."

Keith just glances over his shoulder, lips curled beneath his mask as he lifts his free hand. He's wearing gloves that cover his whole hand. Black and skin tight. Veins of purple run throughout the palm, pulsing faintly. 

He presses his hand down on the control panel, feeling the surge of energy beneath his touch. There's a flash of purple and a high pitched ringing just beyond his realm of hearing, but still enough to make his hair stand on end. The display screen beneath his palm fizzles and distorts with static. A blade symbol appears. Flashes. And then the whole room goes dark.

Silence for several beats of his heart. 

The only light is the flickering neon glow from advertisements several blocks away, faint and muddled light eerily shining through the grime coated and cracked windows of the warehouse. 

And then the emergency lights above turn on. A faint and dull pulsing red. Casting silhouettes in blood for brief moments before fading. Keith's goggles keeps the crosshairs on the Galra scattered throughout the room, but he knows they see nothing but the faint, pulsing of his shadow. 

The echoing sound of dozens of locks disengaging fills the large room. 

A pause.

Shuffling movement.

Metal doors slowly sliding open. 

"Who's outnumbered now?" He asks into the shadows, voice low and rumbling. 

With every pulse of the red light, more figures pull from the darkness. Approaching the Galra backing into the center of the room. An alarm goes off in the distance. More flashing lights from just outside the room. Brighter and more urgent. Shouting. 

Inside the room, things move with an eerie slowness. 

Banging on the doors. 

Muffled shouting. 

They fly open, and chaos erupts. Keith dives into the fray once more. Feeling the burn in his veins. Feasting on the adrenaline. Shiro might not have been in this prison, but there are plenty of others who are. And he's getting them all out. 

The Galra have been training these people in a battle arena for their own entertainment, running experiments to make them stronger. Forcing them to fight for their own survival. 

It's clear they hadn't anticipated what would happen if those prisoners were released and turned on them. 

The result is a blood bath beneath the gently pulsing red light.

* * *

He lays back on the bed. The air is stale. Smelling faintly of dried sweat. It's drowned out by the bittersweet smoke that drifts lazily throughout the room. Stemming from a burned out joint smoldering on the bedside table. 

The mattress is hard. The sheets feel far too stiff for comfort. He leans against pillows that have definitely seen better days. 

His body aches, but it's not unpleasant. It's the dull throbbing that remains as an echo of the fight. It's fueled by the pulsing sensation of satisfaction. Of a job well done. Of doing some good for once. He's a step closer to finding Shiro. Crossed a place off his list and got some useful information from the prisoners he freed. 

And, you know, he freed some prisoners. People who, like Shiro, had been kidnapped and toyed with and forced to fight for the Empire's enjoyment. 

Some of them came out with scars. Missing limbs. Prosthetics. Some barely looked human anymore. It makes him nauseous when he thinks about what might've happened to Shiro, but he tries not to dwell on it. Instead, he lets himself bask in the radiating sensation of getting shit done. 

Of being one step closer.

It keeps the ghosts at bay for now. He hopes it'll stave off some nightmares, too. 

He sustained a few cuts that still sting when he moves wrong, and more than a few bruises. He might've fractured a rib, and the knuckles on his left hand are definitely swollen. There's a bruise on his thigh big enough to give him a limp, but he'll heal. He always does. 

Besides, the edge of the pain is taken off by the buzzing in his veins. By the smoke curling through his lungs with every inhale. 

The buzz is relaxing. Makes him melt into this shitty mattress. 

Still, it could be better…

He tosses the little box up into the air again. Watches in almost slow motion as it reaches the peak of its ascent near the ceiling before falling once more. He catches it, ignoring the sting in his left hand, then tosses it once more. 

A simple black box. A scanner on top, just big enough for a fingerprint. His fingerprints are programmed into it. Just as the other Paladins' are. One of Pidge's special blends. She had given it to him before he left. 

He could take a hit. Let the quint really take the edge off the aches. Let it chase away his nightmares and pull him into a blissful black out. 

But…

He catches it. Holds the box in his hands. Runs his fingertips over the smooth surface. 

What if it doesn't take the edge off? What if it makes it worse? What if it leaves him restless and aching for entirely different reasons? 

Quint reminds him of Pidge. Of Coran. Of Hunk, and Allura, and Matt. It reminds him of Voltron. Of racing through the city with Lance, a laugh caught in his throat and a smile on his lips. 

It reminds him of  _ Lance _ . 

What if he calls Lance and says things he shouldn’t? What if he calls Lance, and it’s too late?

He presses his thumb to the scanner, watching as the light flashes, as the dispenser begins to glow. A thin, perfectly square blue sheet spits out. Lance's favorite flavor. He wonders if Pidge did that on purpose.

His heart aches worse than his body as he throws the box across the room. The plaster on the wall cracks from the impact, but the box itself is fine. Tumbles to the floor and blinks innocently. Impatiently. Waiting for Keith to take the quint. 

Instead, he rolls over. Take the smoldering joint and closes his eyes, pressing it to chapped lips to take in what he still can. 

Lets himself drift. 

Leaves the curtains pulled open so the flickering neon lights can illuminate his room. Finds comfort in them. Doesn't think he can deal with the dark again. Not alone. 

He feels the sting behind his eyes. Feels the warmth creating stains down his cheeks. Watches how the changing lights play off the bruised skin of his hand. 

Lets himself—

Drift. 

Lets himself—

Forget. 

But he can't forget. Not really. The flickering lights remind him of those in Voltron. Of being on the dance floor with Lance. Of losing themselves in the sea of shifting bodies. Feeling the music more than hearing it. Lost in each other. Lost in time. Lost in space. 

But together. 

He thought they'd be fine, as long as they were together. 

_ Idiot _ .

His heart squeezes as his body spasms. Chest feeling tight and breath coming in ragged and shuddering out. He gasps, feeling more warmth slide down his cheeks, soaking into the already stained sheets. He curls in on himself. His body protests, but the pain is nothing compared to the way his chest tightens, barbs sinking into his heart. 

He let himself feel.

He let himself get attached. 

A mistake. He should've known better. Caring makes it more difficult when they leave. When  _ he _ leaves, he reminds himself. To let go. To move on. Makes it harder to bury it deep down and forget. 

But he can't bring himself to regret it. 

He regrets a lot of things, but not Lance. 

Never Lance. 

His hand curls into the front of his shirt, eyes squeezing shut as his body rocks with silent sobs. It hurts. It hurts. It  _ hurts— _

But it was worth it. All of it was worth it.

It was worth it to have him, if only for a short time. 

There are ghosts in the back of this room, and he doesn't like it. He falls asleep with his covers pulled up, and tries to fight it. 

* * *

He wakes with a start. Sweat drying cold on his skin, soaking through his shirt. Chest heaving as he can't quite catch his breath, each one shallow and ragged. His pulse hammers in his ears. Hands curled into the sheets, he stares at the ceiling, plaster cracked and tinged dark with years of smoke. The smell of his joint is long gone, leaving the room stale and sour.

The voices echo in his head, fading slowly. His father's dying scream. Shiro's plea for his life. His mother turning her back. Lance's cold eyes as he spits out the barbed words designed to cut him right where he's most vulnerable. 

_ Selfish. Terrible. Manipulative. Unlovable. Too wild. Too much. Too violent. Better off alone. _

It takes him a moment to remember where he is. 

Takes him a moment longer for the dregs of the nightmare to fade. 

Takes several moments more for him to calm down. 

The room is cast in the hazy red glow of the sun. Bright and washing everything in dreary gray relief. Showing every stain. Every crack. Every bruise. 

He lets out a shaky sigh. He knows he won't be able to sleep again. He's wide awake. 

He moves to the window, legs shaking with every step. His hands have no strength, muscles still reeling from being tight and quivering with the fading effects of adrenaline. It takes several minutes, but he finally manages to wrestle open the window, getting it unstuck from years of grime and screeching as it slides open. 

The chill in the air is refreshing, biting through the heaviness that clings to him. It smells of smoke and smog, but it's no different than usual. He pushes himself up onto the windowsill, leaning his back against the wall. The city below looks dead. Abandoned and crumbling in the daylight. The neon advertisements turned sickly. The haze of pollution more prominent. 

His eyes burn with exhaustion, lids feeling heavy. His body still aches from the fight the night before. 

But he can't sleep.

He's wide awake.

He's afraid of the nightmares. 

He's not sure how long he stays there, losing himself as his mind drifts and eyes unfocus. It could have been hours. It could have been minutes. He watches the sun slowly sink toward the horizon. Watches the shadows start to stretch across the city. 

The knock at the door startles him, ripping him from his thoughts. 

He whips around, head spinning with the sudden movement. He waits, breath held, unsure whether or not he had actually heard it. Half convinced it had been an echo of his imagination. 

But there it is again. Sharper this time. More insistent. Pounding on the metal door. 

He stumbles off his perch on the windowsill, legs nearly giving out under him. They ache from the day before and tingle as feeling seeps back into them. Still, he falls into a cautious crouch, moving on bare feet across the room to where his things are piled. He feels better once his dagger is in his hands, finding comfort and feeling grounded with the handle nestled in his palm. 

He creeps toward the door, pressing his free hand and an ear to the cool metal. 

He can hear soft voices. A grunt. Breathing. 

Another knock.  _ Pounding _ . Not knuckles, but a fist hitting the door. Keith winces, pulling back—

" _ Keith! _ We know you're in there, man. Open up!"

Keith's breath catches in his throat. Heart thundering in his chest. It can't be— It can't—

"Come on, dude. I'm  _ tired _ . Pidge is gonna hack this door in like two seconds if you don't—"

His dagger clatters to the floor, hand already flying toward the button next to the door. His swollen knuckles scream in pain at the impact, but he doesn't care. Because the door is sliding open— and Lance is there.

He stands with his hand raised, fist poised to knock again. He blinks in surprise, lips parted as his words die. Behind him, Hunk and Pidge crowd the hall, but Keith can only stare at Lance. 

He looks haggard in the daylight. The bags under his eyes are dark and prominent. There's a dryness to his skin, gaunt and notable for someone who takes such good care of his face. His lips look cracked. His eyes are lidded and tired. His hair mussed and windswept. He holds himself slumped but tense, like he might fall over at any moment, teetering on the last of his wakefulness. 

"Lance..." The name leaves Keith's lips in a rush of air. 

Lance's hand falls to his side. Despite how exhausted he looks, he manages to smile. It's small, but it shines. Lifting his cheeks and lighting up his eyes. "Hey, man."

And then Lance is stumbling forward. Keith thinks he might have moved too. Lance's arms wrap around him, and his own find their way around Lance's waist. They cling tight, fingers curling into shirts. He buries his face into the crook of Lance's shoulder, feeling him turn to nuzzle into his hair. He knows it's not pleasant, but that doesn't stop him. 

He's shaking, but that's okay.

Because Lance is  _ here _ . He's here, and he's solid, and he's warm, and he anchors Keith as everything spins around him. 

"Hey, Keith." Hunk's voice. Shuffling of feet. A hand lands on his shoulder, large and solid and warm as he pats firmly. "Good to see you again." He sounds just as tired as Lance looks. 

"Do you know how hard you are to find?" Pidge's voice. Sharper, but hanging heavy with her own exhaustion. There's also a fondness in there. A relief she can't hide. "Even with my tracker on your shit. You move so  _ fast _ , dude. Learn to stop and smell the roses. It'll make it easier for us to catch up to you."

He hears the door slide shut, the automatic lock engaging. He lifts his head, turning to look at them as they push into the room. "What are you—" He turns back to Lance as he lifts his head. Finds his voice failing as he's faced once more with that small, tender smile. 

It's too soft. Too fond. Too  _ relieved _ . It's not at all what he'd been expecting. He was prepared for rage. Betrayal. For Lance to be bitter and frustrated. He was ready for Hunk and Pidge's steely glares and sharp words. 

He was prepared for them to give up on him. Not for them to chase him down several cities away, smiling at him like they're glad to see him.

"What's going on?" He whispers.

Lance lets out a long exhale, shifting his arm around Keith's shoulders as he guides him into the room. He leans heavily on Keith, feet dragging. Keith doesn't feel too steady himself, leaning into Lance's hold. They keep each other up.

"We came to find you." Hunk sits on the edge of the bed, bouncing a bit to test it before lying back. 

"Not that you made it easy for us," Pidge grumbles, stalking across the room to rip the curtains closed. Throwing the room into sudden dark relief. "After missing you in the last town, we've been going nonstop for almost twenty-four hours. I'm fucking  _ beat _ ." She sighs, and Keith can see her shadow as she moves toward the bed, flopping into the middle of it, crawling under the covers and curling up. 

Hunk hums, one pillow already thrown over his head, breath going soft and even. 

"I don't..." He turns back to Lance. He can't see him clearly, but he can feel him. "I don't understand..."

"Well, it's pretty simple, really." Lance leads him to the empty side of the bed. He lets go of Keith to sit down, unceremoniously kicking off his boots and shedding his jacket. "You left, and we realized that we couldn't let you do this crazy mission of yours by yourself." 

He scoots back, opening his arms and gesturing for Keith to join him. He does. Movements slow and stiff. Uncertain that this is even real. 

But it is. Lance's body is warm, arms strong and solid as they fold around him. Keith collapses against his chest, curling into him, burying his face in his chest. Lance rests his chin atop his head, sighing into his hair. 

Keith's arms wrap around him, curling fists around the back of his shirt. "But... why?"

"Because we're friends, dude. We've got your back." Lance's legs tangle with his as he noses through Keith's hair, curling around him until his lips are near his ear. He shivers as warm breath caresses sensitive skin. "And I shouldn't have let you go to begin with. Not again. I should've left  _ with _ you."

Keith feels his eyes sting. "I didn't ask you to."

"I know."

He feels his voice crack. "You didn't have to."

"I know." Lance sighs again, voice thick with exhaustion. His hands roam restlessly and reverently over Keith's back, his sides, his thigh. "But I want to. I want to be here. With you.  _ For _ you. We're in this together now, Keith. You don't have to do this alone."

He feels himself shaking, but Lance just holds him tighter. Doesn't say a word as Keith buries his face in his chest and as tears soak into his shirt. Does nothing but hum softly as his hands rub soothing circles into his back. 

There's still a ghost in the back of this room, but something has changed. He thinks, maybe, just maybe, he can face it now. It's hard to be brave when he's alone in the dark, but... he's no longer alone. 

He falls asleep in Lance's arms, matching breaths and bodies tangled tight. 

For the first time in weeks, he's not haunted by nightmares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> __________________
> 
> Go listen to the song! Go go. 
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
> **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	8. Track 8: Dark Side of Your Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This seems so complicated  
> Are these your friends, or are they mine?  
> They love having you stir me up, up  
> And leave me burning like the LA fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys listen to the album and just lose yourselves in klance feels and the atmosphere <33 
> 
> Happy reading!

This moment feels like an echo.

Pulsing music, vibrating through the foundation of the club, reverberating through his bones. Until he's one with it. Until he can hardly separate himself from it. Until the music, the bass, the beat, become part of him. Part of his own pulse. Connecting him to the club. To the bodies around him. All of them shifting and swaying. Marionettes pulled and tugged along by the invisible strings of the beat. 

Lights flash. Red. Pink. Purple. Blue. Green. Yellow. Orange. Red. White. White. White. Flashing. Whirling. Capturing the movement inside the building as fractions in time. Illuminating people for only a second before their details fade and dim. Only brought back to life a second later with the next flash. 

People moving in jagged segments. Voices drowned by the music. All moving together. Rhythmic, even in their chaos. 

The life of a club. 

It's not Voltron. It's not the Renegade. But it might as well be. They're several cities away. An entirely different hot spot. An entirely different flare of life dotting the wastes. Yet it's all the same. 

It's all an echo. 

Even his own movements. Keith stands at the bar, one foot propped up on the bar beneath. He leans on his elbows, sleeves of his jacket protecting his skin from the sticky surface. Lance stands next to him, leaning back against the bar top, sipping his drink, eyes sharp in the flashing neon lights as he surveys the crowd. 

They're on a mission. They should be observing. They should be looking for Galra. 

Instead, Lance nudges him, nodding toward his empty glass. "You need a refill."

Keith picks it up, tapping the bottom on the metal of the bar top, swirls around the drops of liquor still at the bottom. "We shouldn't be drinking at all."

He feels Lance's shrug. Feels the drag of their arms against one another. He doesn't remember when Lance got that close, but he knows he's leaning into it now. If he leans close enough, he can get a whiff of Lance's cologne. The smell of stale smoke and fresh rain that clings to his jacket. The sweat of his skin. "I don't think we've ever done a job sober."

He has a point. But they've already had several drinks. There's a line between being comfortably buzzed and too intoxicated for his own good. He knows he can do his job either way. He's done it a thousand times. 

So when Lance signals another round of shots for them, Keith doesn't argue. 

When Lance insists on interlocking his arm with Keith's before they drink, eyes glinting dangerously over the rim of the glass, Keith doesn't argue. 

As the liquor burns down his throat, settling warm and heavy in his gut, he doesn't argue. 

Because they've done this dance a thousand times. 

With the buzz in his veins, warm and bubbling, Lance takes his hand. Keith doesn't fight it as he pulls him away from the bar, out into the crowd. They hover just on the end of it. Not as deep into the writhing mass of the dance floor as they would go at Voltron, but far enough to get engulfed. 

He doesn't need Lance's direction to turn, but he appreciates the guidance of his hands anyway. Warm, calloused hands. Long, slender fingers splayed out as they run along his hips. His waist. His sides. His stomach. Sliding up the material of his shirt until it bunches, exposing his skin to the open air as his hand slips beneath. 

He presses back against Lance. Drapes himself against Lance's chest. Relishes in the way Lance's arms fit around him. In the way Lance's hips instantly pick up the same rhythm Keith's move to, both of them helpless against the pull and pulse of the club's heartbeat. 

Despite everything they've gone through. Despite the distance Keith put between them. Despite the ways their connection has strained and frayed. Despite the fact that Keith was certain that connection had been irrevocably severed. Despite all of that, Lance is here. 

Lance is here, hands on his skin, breath hot against his neck, body hot and pressed up against him. 

Lance is here, and despite how much they've bent, despite feeling like they had broken, they snap back together. 

Immediately.

Without trouble.

They slip right back into routine. Into the small habits. Into the touches. The looks. Bodies moving in sync. Together, even when separate. Constantly rotating together. Caught in each other's orbit. 

Every touch feels like an echo.

They've done this dance a thousand times. 

Lance twists him up until they blur the lines. Until he doesn't know what to feel. He's still not sure what they are. They slipped back together without preamble. Without talking about it. He doesn't know where they stand. 

All he can do is lean against Lance and hope he doesn't fall.

They move together. Inseparable. Pulled together and helpless to resist. Lance's lips find his neck. His nose brushes against Keith's ear. His breath is hot and labored. He's hard where he presses against Keith, and Keith grinds against him, feeling a bloom of satisfaction in his chest when he hears Lance's breath hitch. 

He tosses his head back, resting it on Lance's shoulder. One hand lifted to cradle the back of his head, running his fingers through short locks, tightening at his nape. His other hand falls over Lance's, twining their fingers together, pushing his hand down— down—  _ down— _

And then Lance is pulling away, whispering a labored but sharp, "There. That's the guy Pidge told us to follow."

He pulls Keith through the crowd, weaving through the writhing bodies with ease, grip firm where their hands are intertwined. 

Keith feels dizzy. Music still pulsing, out of sync with his heart beat. He feels hot, heat in his gut clenching. 

He can't believe— he had forgotten about the mission. So caught up in Lance, in the moment, in the echo. Only for a moment— but it had been enough. He had lost sight of the objective. Of the real reason they're here. 

Lance just twists him up— up— until the lines are blurred. Between mission and pleasure. What's for show and what's real. Are they blending in or are they helpless to resist each other? Keith doesn't know anymore. 

Lance makes a fool of his heart, and he doesn't even know what he does to him. 

They slip away from the crowd, from the club. Out into the streets. Cool air chasing away the lingering burn beneath Keith's skin. They slink through the shadows, following after the clueless Galra. 

They've done this dance a thousand times. 

* * *

His chest is heaving, breaths coming quick and labored. His muscles ache, but it's a good burn. He runs his tongue over the split in his bottom lip, relishing in the sting, taste of blood strong and familiar. 

He pulls back, dancing out of the way as a chain whips through the air, crackling with electricity. He sees a flash of a blue coat in his peripheral vision. A glimpse of neon pink flashing across tan skin and a bright smile. He can hear the shift of Lance's footsteps as he moves. Keith finds himself back to back with him. Warm and sturdy, tall and firm. 

It's familiar. It's comforting. It's grounding. 

No matter what the chaos brings. No matter how high he feels on the adrenaline of the fight. He always knows where Lance is. Barely needs to look at him. They move together as one, perfectly in sync, driven by the same silent, driving beat. He knows he can trust Lance to watch his back. Knows he'll watch Lance's. 

The rain is a constant drizzle around them. Wetting the pavement. Creating puddles that reflect the flicker of neon lights. Advertisements above and below. There's a haze around them, blanketed by the sheets of the downpour. The rain itself reflects the lights, illuminating the alley they find themselves in. Backdropping the darker silhouettes of the five Galra grunts who managed to get the jump on them. 

But they'll be fine.

They've done this a thousand times.

Lance's shoulders press against his own as he turns his head. Keith glances at him because he's helpless not to. Catches a glimpse of that wicked smirk and the flash of his eyes, caught aflame, reflecting neon pink and vibrant blue. "How many do we need alive?" He asks, a laugh on his tongue. An uninhibited joy in his eyes. A spark that Keith feels ignite something deep within him. Fueling his own fire. 

Keith feels his own lips tug at the corners. Sees it reflected in Lance's gaze. "Just one."

"Take your pick, babe."

Keith hums, sound lost to the night as his gaze drifts around the Galra circling them like sharks. Grinning. Self assured. Certain in their kill or their prize. Little do they realize, Keith and Lance will be neither. 

Because they've done this a thousand times. 

"Whoever lasts the longest."

He can hear the grin in Lance's voice, wild and menacing as he laughs. "Survival of the fittest. I like it."

Keith's hands tighten on the familiar leather grip of his dagger. The energy crackles, sword already drawn, forming a white hot blade longer than the actual length of his dagger. Behind him, Lance grips his guns, one in each hand. He prefers the smaller ones for close range combat. Keith knows he has the metamorphic attachments to turn them into larger guns for more distance. 

They dive once more into the fray.

He never thought guns would be good in melee combat, but Lance proves him wrong time and time again. He's quick. He's agile. He sweeps through the enemies with ease, shots finding their marks without fail, both from across the fight and with the barrel pressed to bare flesh. 

They make quick work of it. Before reinforcements can come. Taking them down is easy. Low level grunts with little experience. This is a heavily Galra influenced city, and they don't have to deal with fighting for territory much. Only minor scraps. Nothing like what Keith and Lance bring to the table. 

They leave only one alive. They can't risk having the others run and give away the fact that they're here. They gotta keep their presence a secret. Gotta find the Coliseum and Shiro. Can't let the Galra know they're here, or the entire Empire will come down on them. They're in enemy territory. 

So they leave one alive. Knock him out and leave him in a puddle on the cracked concrete as Lance sheaths his guns, already backing Keith to the wall. Keith's blade dissipates, dagger finding its sheath just as Lance pushes into him. Presses him to the cold, stone wall. 

The thigh between Keith's is solid. Hips rough as they grind against him. Lance's mouth is hot, tongue eager as it shoves past Keith's lips. He ignores the sting of his cut. Opens up to Lance's immediately. Instantly. Lets himself be consumed. Digs his fingers into Lance's hair and holds him in place. Breath quick and heavy through his nose. Head dizzy and body burning. 

They should call Pidge and Hunk, but they don't. Not right away.

The ride out the wave of adrenaline and take from each other. 

Take. Take.  _ Take _ .

He doesn't know what it means. Doesn't know what they are. Doesn't know where they stand, and he fears he's falling without an assurance that he'll be caught. 

But he can't stop. Clings to Lance like he's the last thing that's keeping him grounded. Lets himself get swept away in the moment and tries not to worry about the future. 

Because they've done this dance a thousand times. 

He shuts his mouth, and they do it all again.

* * *

He wakes to the sound of voices, and it takes him a moment to realize why it's strange. 

He's used to sounds as he sleeps. With life revolving around cities, there's always someone awake. Always someone talking. Always someone arguing. Be it people outside or voices that drift through the thin walls of hotel rooms. Even when he stays with the Blade, they sleep in a large, barracks style room. There's always someone up and moving. 

So voices? He's used to that. These voices aren't particularly loud. Whispered in the early hours of dawn. Adding to the heavy, still atmosphere rather than cutting through it. He's used to that. People talking in hushed voices in a semblance of privacy and consideration. So that doesn't explain why he's suddenly awake. 

As his eyes crack open, the room slowly comes into focus. Just another hotel room. Same as all the others. Walls cracked and floors stained. Blankets threadbare and bed far from comfortable. It smells like chemicals, and the burn of bleach is oddly comforting. At least he knows it's as clean as it's gonna get. Above the burn is the aftertaste of something heavy and bitter. The fading smell of smoke gone stale. That, too, is comforting. 

The thick curtain is little more than a blanket pinned over the window, blocking out the hazy red light of day. The edges of it burn, glowing with a reminder that the night has faded. Thin beams of sunlight sneak through the edges, creating beams that cut through the shadows, illuminating the lazy haze of smoke and dance of dust. 

Lance sits on the floor near the window, just within those beams of light. The reddish glow warms a slash of his skin, turning it to bronze. Pidge sits with him. They huddle together. Whispered words. There's a datapad in Pidge's hands, and Lance has an arm bent in front of him, his wristband holoscreen activated and hovering in the space between them. 

If he listens, he knows he'll be able to pick out words. 

But right now, all he can hear is the shuddered  _ thump _ of his heartbeat as it sinks into his stomach, a sickly chill crawling across his skin.

Because he's realized what woke him up.

The spot next to him is cold. Blankets thrown carelessly away, leaving a hollow where the chill seeps in. 

Keith shivers, curling in on himself, knees pulling up to his chest as he attempts to bury himself in the threadbare sheets. They had gotten separate rooms. Him and Lance. Pidge and Hunk. He hadn't thought about it much at the time. His lips were still bruised from Lance's teeth, and Lance's fingers were dancing along the small of his back, dipping playfully beneath his waistband. Lance had suggested it so casually, but there had been a knowing look in the glance Pidge and Hunk exchanged. 

He hadn't thought about it because the moment the door closed behind them, Keith had been swept up in  _ Lance _ . In his touch. His taste. The bite of his teeth and the delicious slide of his lips. The friction and burn between them. They way his body just can't say no. The way Lance's breath grows labored beneath his tough, muscles twitching beneath his fingertips, flesh bruising beneath his lips and grip. 

Lance knows just how to stir him up— up— leaving him burning. 

But now, the bed is cold. Keith's body is chilled, aching with echoes from Lance's touch, fading to memory even as his bruises throb. 

And Lance is across the room, sitting with Pidge.

He hadn't thought about it before, but he thinks about it now. Doubts come whispering from the shadows. A chill sweeps through him as a ghost hangs over him in the corner, watching him with hollowed eyes, saying all the things he fears to feel and barely dares to think. 

Because he's here, on the dark side of the room, lost to the darkness as Lance sits in the light of day. His back is to him. Words hushed and muted. He hadn't woken Keith up when Pidge came in. He hadn't stayed in bed. Whatever they're talking about, he didn't think to include Keith. What if... what if this is just the beginning. 

Small things. Small whispers. Echoing in the vast chasm of his heart. Resonating his fears. Compounding them. Growing in volume as they bounce off the walls of his chest, gaining momentum and speed. Sending him spiraling—

_ What is Keith to him? Does he even matter? What are they doing? Why is Lance here? What's going to happen after all of this? Is Keith just a friend? Is this just for fun? Just seeking a thrill? Like the hit of a drug or the sweet bite of candy. What about when the thrill fades? What use will Keith have? _

Will Lance leave? They've all left— Keith will be alone— 

His fingers curl into the sheets, white knuckles clutching the fabric to his chest, pressing against flesh as an anchor, trying to keep himself from spiraling. He focuses on his breathing, trying to draw in deep despite the tightness threatening to strangle his lungs. He doesn't want them to know he's awake. Doesn't want them to see him spiraling. 

He's on the dark side of the room, with the notches on Lance's bed post. 

Is that all he is...?

Just another notch on his bedpost. 

Once, Keith might have been fine with that. No attachments. Just momentary bliss. Now... Now he's not so sure. 

Lance is making a fool of his heart. He doesn't know what he does to him in the dark.

* * *

He brings his bike to a stop next to Lance's, letting the engine hum for a moment longer before slowly lowering it to the ground. The lights dim, rumble drifting out. Pidge and Hunk are already off their bikes, lugging their bags toward the center of the roof. 

Beside him, Lance stretches, arms high above his head. Keith takes a moment to admire the way his back arches and the stretch of fabric tight over his thighs as he straddles the leather seat of his hoverbike. 

Then he's throwing himself forward, planting his hands and rocking his weight forward, swinging himself off the bike to land on the roof. 

"What're we doing here?" Keith asks, frowning as he pulls his goggles down until they hang around his neck. He leans back, crossing his arms. "We're wasting the night."

Lance waves a hand at him, smirk already tilting his lips. "Calm down, we're here to relax. Celebrate. You know, hang out." 

"Hang... out...," Keith echoes, incredulous. His face contorts, brows furrow as he scowls. "We should be crashing the Galra warehouse. Shiro could be there—"

"He's not." Keith's mouth snaps shut, eyes narrowing. Lance walks around his bike to stand in front of Keith's, fingers laced behind his head and a grin stretched across his lips. 

"Lance..." His voice is laced with warning.

Lance's smile never falters. "Come on. Pidge will explain." He nods over his shoulder, following the movement with his body as he turns, striding away without looking back. Like he's confident Keith will follow. 

He does. 

Feels the tug at his chest as he slides off his own bike, loose stones crunching under his boots as he hurries after him. He slows when he gets to Lance's side, pointedly ignoring the smile lingering on his lips and the way his heart flutters when Lance bumps their shoulders together. 

At the center of the roof, Pidge has already taken a seat, bag in her lap as she digs through it. Beside her, Hunk crouches down, pulling things out of his own bag. Bottles, containers of food, a blanket that he unravels and lays out before sitting down—

"What're we doing?" Keith asks again, voice sharp in his agitation. 

"Taking a break," Pidge says.

At the same time Hunk says, "Celebrating."

"Celebrating  _ what? _ "

"You really don't know, do you?" He turns to find Lance already looking at him. That infuriating smirk is still in place, but his eyes are softer, head tilted and expression brimming with far too much. A small laugh bubbles out of him, and Keith hates the way his breath hitches at the sound. "I can't believe— actually, no. I can totally believe it." Lance shakes his head, dropping to sit on the blanket, reaching up to grab Keith's hand and tug him down. "Come on, dude."

He forgets how strong Lance is. Or maybe he's just weak to him. He drops next to him, balance tilted until he rocks into Lance's side. An arm falls around his shoulder, holding him in place before he can pull away. 

"It's your  _ birthday _ , man." 

Keith blinks, mouth agape as he stares at Lance's wide grin. "What?"

"Your  _ birthday _ ," he repeats, a laugh trailing at the end. 

"I don't—" Is it? He's lost track of what day it is. They all blur together. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years. Time doesn't feel like something he can pinpoint, and he struggles to remember the last time he even looked at the date. "Is it?"

Pidge snorts. "Yeah, it is."

"How do you know?"

She shrugs. "I got your file from the Garrison database. October twenty-third. Which is today."

Hunk passes him a bottle, a warm smile spread across his face. "So we're gonna celebrate."

"But... why?"

He doesn't think Hunk's grin can get any wider, but he's quickly proven wrong. It's accented with a laugh. "Because you're our friend, dude!"

Lance turns to him, arm tightening around his shoulders to pull him an inch closer. Nose touching his temple. Breath fanning out across his cheek. "And we're happy you're in our lives."

Something shifts. A warmth that cascades through him, sinking low in his gut to pool. But there's ice in his veins and a tightness in his chest. Breathing is difficult, and speaking around the lump in his throat even more so. He ignores the burning behind his eyes, blinking it away. "What about Shiro?"

If they notice the rasp in his voice or the way it cracks, they don't acknowledge it. 

"We found him," Pidge says, and he feels his entire world tilt, breath freezing in his lungs. Pidge looks up then, lips pursed and eyes thoughtful. "Well, I'm about ninety-five percent sure we've found him." She shrugs, pulling out a small cylinder, setting it beside her before digging in her bag once more. "That tracker drone you guys put on the Galra before letting him go? Yeah, he led us straight to their temporary base. Just like we hoped he would. I got audio and some visual feed early this morning. Hacking their systems was pretty easy after that, even remotely. They kept referring to one prisoner called the Champion, and I'm pretty sure that's— Keith?"

He's halfway to his feet before Lance pulls him back down. " _ Hey, hey, hey _ ," he says quickly, pinning Keith with a firm stare, lips pursed. "You're not going anywhere."

"We have to go save him," Keith says, voice quick and frantic, matching the rhythm of his heart. His eyes are wide and wild as he looks between them, bewildered by their ease. Don't they realize this is  _ urgent? _ "Why aren't we going there  _ right now? _ "

"Because they're already gone," Pidge says simply, and with just those few words, he feels the fire in his chest dim. 

"What?"

"They left before the sun rose. They were already packed up, so they just headed out early."

"Then why aren't we—"

"Because we know where they're going." Lance's voice is steel. Sharp and hard. There's something grounding about it that Keith latches onto like an anchor. It's steady, and it calms the way Keith's body vibrates with unfocused energy. He looks to Lance, eyes pleading where his voice fails him. Lance's expression softens, smile small. The hand around Keith's shoulder lifts to run fingers through his hair. "We know where they're going," he repeats, voice soft and steady. "We still have a tracker on them, and Pidge has a bug in their system. There's no where they can go now without us knowing."

Keith licks his lips, hating how broken he sounds when he says, "Then why..."

"Because we can't just go charging in there by ourselves. Shiro is at the heart of a huge operation, and we need back up. Pidge has already contacted Allura, and she's talked to Kollivan. The Blade has agents there, and the Paladins have allies. We'll meet up with them soon, but for now..." His fingers curl tight into Keith's hair, pulling him forward as he leans in, pressing their foreheads together. Keith stares, even as his features blur. Lips parting as he feels the caress of Lance's breath. "We relax. Celebrate. And have some  _ fun _ ."

It's been a long time since Keith has had  _ fun _ . Real fun. Relaxed and easy. No pressure. No mission. No watching over his shoulder for a knife or a gunshot. Not doing things just to chase away the ghosts and get him out of his head. Not seeking thrills just because the alternative is to feel hollow. 

And now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure the only time he's ever had fun— real fun— the only time he's ever felt truly relaxed and at ease— has been with Lance. Lance, and Hunk, and Pidge. Allura and Coran and Matt. 

First at the Garrison.

Then later, when they were reunited. 

And now. 

He sits back, taking a moment to simply watch the others. Lance's arm is still slung over his shoulders, but he's turned to Hunk, using his other hand to gesture as he talks. Hunk laughs along, diligently setting up a spread of food. Keith's not even sure when he got all of this. Pidge turns on the cylinder, which turns out to be a speaker, playing music and throwing lights into the air. Reminiscent of Voltron. A little pocket of space, just for them. A space that feels like home.  _ They _ feel like home. 

This seems so complicated. Are these his friends, or just Lance's? If Lance wasn't so attached to him, would Pidge and Hunk even care? Would they have even come after him if it weren't for Lance? 

If Lance leaves him, will he lose Pidge and Hunk, too?

But then Pidge tosses him a crudely wrapped gift, scooting closer as he opens it, eyes alight as she explains the new knife she's gotten him and all the modifications that come with it. She says it comes with a built in tracker so Pidge can always find him if he gets into trouble. 

Then Hunk is explaining all the food laid out in front of him. It's a more diverse spread than he thinks he's ever had. His head is spinning as he sees all his favorite things, favorite flavors. Even dishes from his childhood that he hasn't had since. Things they used to sneak out and get while at the Garrison. He's confused, asks how Hunk remembers all of this, but Hunk just scratches the back of his neck and says he always remembers his friends’ favorites. 

His chest feels full, and that burn stings behind his eyes once more. 

They chase the night with drinks and carefully crafted joints, rolled by Pidge specifically for the occasion, laced with just a hint of Quint. They sprawl out on the rooftop, exchanging stories and playing games. Pidge has gadgets to keep them entertained. Music and lights pulsing around them. On a rooftop on the outskirts of the city, halfway up the skyline. Open air crisp and cold, refreshing against his heated skin. 

Lance leans into him, warm and solid, offering far more than Keith can name. 

He laughs until his stomach hurts. 

He smiles until his cheeks ache. 

But as Lance's fingers slip beneath his shirt, skimming playfully over the skin of his back, leaving fire in their wake, it still seems so complicated. 

Pidge and Hunk love having Lance stir him up. Teasing him with pointed jabs, softened by the smirk on his lips and twisted by the devilish gleam in his eyes. They laugh as Lance's touches make him jump. As Lance's words make him flush. They cackle as the two of them get competitive. As Lance riles him up.

Until Keith is burning.

Burning for him.

It seems so complicated. They've done this dance a thousand times, but he still doesn't know what it means. Doesn't know when it'll end. So he shuts his mouth, and lets it happen all again. 

With nights like these, who needs the day? 

He'll shut his eyes and sleep it all away. 

* * *

There are times when Lance seems miles away. Standing in the glow of neon lights, bathed in color. Lips curled into a sly, wicked grin. Hair soft and face sharp. Eyes catching the lights and reflecting them back brighter. Gaze lifted at the edges but sharp with observation. 

So bright beneath the neon lights. 

Standing tall and proud. 

He's not necessarily loud, but he turns heads all the same. Commands attention unlike anyone Keith has ever known. Lures people in and emits a presence that tricks them into relaxing. 

He's quick with a gun and sharp with his words. 

He's self assured and rightfully so. 

He struggled to find that spotlight in the Garrison, but here, in the streets, he runs things. He's found his place. Carved it out and owns it. 

And he seems so far out of Keith's reach. 

From where he stands in the shadows. Pulled away from the neon glow. He cuts through the noise and this life, one hand on his dagger and one eye on his back. He's been so set on learning how to survive that he never learned how to  _ live _ . 

He's afraid he'll only hold Lance back. That Lance will grow tired of helping him along. That Lance will tire of this game they play. 

After all, they've done this dance a thousand times. 

But still they play. Still they dance. Still Lance turns from the light, fixating instantly on Keith in the shadows. Reaches for him. Pulls him forward. Catches his balance so Keith can stand on his own. Holds him steady so he can breathe. 

Still Lance looks at him like the lights are dancing off of him. Like they set him aglow the way they do to Lance. Like he's something beautiful hidden among the muck and grime of the lower city. He looks at Keith like he's worth something. Has Keith believing that maybe he is, too.

But the dance never changes. The steps stay the same. They were once thrilling, but now they've become a source of dread as much as a comfort. 

He hopes for the best and fears the worst.

Because Lance makes a fool of his heart. 

He's on the dark side of the room with the notches on his bedpost. 

* * *

Keith wakes to find the bed beside him cold, ragged sheets thrown back to create a wrinkled hollow where he can still faintly make out Lance's body shape. 

His eyes drowsily drag across the room. It's brighter than he anticipated, and it takes him a moment to realize why in his sleep addled state. 

The thick curtain is pulled back from the window, exposing just enough of it to fit a body through. It's not a lot, but it's enough to let in a swath of hazy red light, slicing through the darkness of the room and capturing dust particles in moments of near stasis. From this angle, he can't see out the window, but he feels enough of a draft to know it's open. The curtain billows slightly. He can hear the sound of rain and the baseline hum of the city. 

Lance is nowhere to be seen, but he's pretty sure he knows where to find him. 

He's on the dark side of the room with the notches on his bedpost, but he doesn't want to be. 

He wants more. 

He slides out from beneath the sheets, taking a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and rub the sleep from his eyes. He couldn't have been out for more than a couple hours. He finds his pants on the floor, in a heap where they had been hastily discarded the night before. He pulls them on, not bothering to button them before shuffling across the room. 

Squinting against the light, he pulls the curtain back more. The window is open, and Lance is just outside of it. The concrete ledge is wide, the window just an alcove in the building's surface. Lance sits there, one foot propped up on the edge and the other dangling off. One arm rests on his drawn up knee, a cigarette dangling from between his fingers. His head is tilted back against the closed section of the window, back pressed up against the glass. 

His head rolls to the side as Keith pulls himself up onto the ledge, one knee folding and pressing outside, his other leg dangling back into the room. 

"Hey," he greets, lips twitching at the corners. A lazy smile. He's shirtless, too. Feet bare. 

Keith gives himself a moment to take him in. To admire the way his bare chest looks in the hazy red glow. He's not bright and vibrant anymore. He's washed out. Bruises and bags under his eyes visible. He looks tired. He looks haggard. His wicked smile becomes wan in the daylight. 

But he looks so much more real. 

So much more attainable. 

"Hey."

"Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he lies, holding out a hand. Lance doesn't hesitate before passing him the cigarette. He takes a long drag, feeling the burn in his lungs and the relief in his veins as he sighs. "Couldn't sleep."

"Same," Lance hums, nodding slightly. He looks back out over the city. Not their city, but close enough. All cities look the same these days. 

They sit in silence for several long moments, passing the cigarette and taking comfort in each other. Even when they don't speak and don't touch. Smoke curls around them in a lazy caress. 

"We're going to find him, you know." Lance turns to look at him, features set. Lips in a firm line. Eyes hard and lit with a fire that has Keith's heart stuttering. "I promise you that we'll find him."

Keith knows that. He knows they'll find Shiro. That's never been a question. He's always known he'll find him. Eventually. No matter what. He's never let himself believe otherwise. 

It's what comes after that scares him. 

"What happens then?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper. When holding Lance's gaze becomes too much, his head turns, eyes sweeping out to the city, focusing on the way the rain falls through haze and mist. He's not sure how much of it is natural and how much is pollution. "After we find Shiro. What happens?"

There's a lilt of amusement in Lance's voice as he says, "We go home."

Keith swallows thickly. "I don't have a home."

"You could." The reply is gentle. So soft that at first, Keith thinks he might have imagined it, lost as it is beneath the pitter-patter of rain. But when he glances back to Lance, he's still watching him. Eyes full of far too many things to name. Lips pulled into a shy smile, tight around the edges. "With me."

The strings around his heart tug, pulling taut, tearing into his flesh and resonating down to his core as they're plucked. "What're we doing?" His voice is surprisingly even, but his throat feels raw. 

Lance shrugs one shoulder, skin dragging across the glass behind him. His gaze drifts over Keith's face. That small smile still intact, even if it doesn't fully reach his eyes. "Having fun. Figuring out how to be happy in this shitty world."

He doesn't want to ask, but he has to know. "Where is this going?" 

"I don't know," Lance says, almost wistful, almost thoughtful. The tension eases out of him, leaving that smile small but genuine. He looks tired, eyes lidded and bags beneath them dark. But he's beautiful all the same. 

Keith reaches out to pass him the cigarette, but Lance grabs onto his wrist instead, fingers sliding along delicate bare skin, across his palm to settle between his fingers. The cigarette falls from his grip, hitting the ledge and rolling until it falls, lost to the wind and rain and smog of the lower city below. But neither of them care. Lance holds Keith's gaze, and he can't look away. Those eyes have always been captivating, and Keith is a weak man.

Lance's smile curls a little wider, and this time those eyes sparkle. "But I look forward to finding out. And as long as it's with you, I don't care where we end up."

Keith feels the strings of his heart pluck again, resonating in his chest. Shaking off rust and dust. Waking something deep within that he's been too afraid to let see the light of day. He lets out a shuddering breath. "I'm not just a notch on your bedpost?"

Lance chuckles, soft and breathy, head tilting more along with his curling grin. The corners of his eyes crinkle. "You're a notch on my heart, and I don't want to let you go."

An incredulous laugh bubbles up his throat, catching on the lump that's formed, tumbling out of him, choked and breathy. One part disbelief, one part relief, and two parts hope. "That was so dumb."

Lance's smile chases away the exhaustion that clings to him. It catches the dreary daylight and makes it his own. Glowing with it. Warm hued and eyes sparkling. For a moment, Keith isn't sure how he's ever thought the sunlight ever took anything from him. "What can I say? You make a fool of my heart." He chuckles, shaking his head as he pulls Keith's hand toward him, pressing his lips against his knuckles and looking at him through his lashes. "You don't even know what you do to me."

Keith feels the ache in his cheeks before he even realizes he's smiling. "Apparently I make you say dumb things." Voice soft and breathy, yet still wavering. His chest feels far too full. 

Lance's laugh is gentle puffs of air against his hand. "Yes, you do. It's hard to think around you. I end up saying stupid things."

Keith lifts a finger, tracing along Lance's cheek bone as he hums. "Like what?"

Lance meets his gaze, eyes lidded and dark. "Like I think I love you."

Keith's breath hitches, caught in his throat as his heart skips, stuttering back to life at a thundering pace. Without a word, he slips off the windowsill, back into the room. He doesn't let go of Lance's hand. He uses it to pull him back into the room, pulling the curtain closed behind them. 

Then he guides them back across the room. Back to the bed. 

He doesn't think he can find words. Isn't sure his voice will work. But he doesn't think he needs them. He curls up with Lance, pressed close, legs tangled. He presses Lance's hand to his chest. Let him feel his thundering heart. 

And then he kisses him with all the words he can't say on the tip of his tongue, and Lance kisses him back with a new vigor. 

They've done this dance a thousand times, but this time Keith can hear the melody changing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> __________________
> 
> I'm most active on twitter. To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	9. Track 9: Ground Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My systems are critical  
> Gotta find my way back to you  
> Feels like I'm drifting alone  
> I'm just out here wishing that you would say  
> Don't be afraid, no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be perfectly honest... I just legit forgot to update this fic lol. With everything going on and my other two updating fics, it just slipped my mind. Happy update!
> 
> Reminder to listen to the album to drown in feels with me <33

It's been years since Shiro was taken. Years since Keith's life was turned upside down. Forced down a path of no return. Years since he dove down into the muck and grime of the lower city and dedicated his life to getting Shiro back. 

Shiro was his grounding force, and then he was gone. Left Keith floating out into space. Lost and lonely. Uncertain and angry. 

They've nearly rescued him a few times. He and the Blade. Nearly caught up to the roaming, rotating Coliseum. Nearly caught up to the gladiatorial prisoner they call the Champion. But every time, he's slipped right through their fingers. Disappearing into the night like smoke. So close, and yet so far. 

A couple of times they'd even managed to make contact. Through carefully maneuvered drones and meticulously hacked systems. Communicators they got to Shiro before they were destroyed. Just long enough to know he's alive. Just long enough to exchange a few words. 

_ Keith, don't worry about me. It's too dangerous. _

_ Hey, I promise you will be fine. If you start floating away, don't be afraid. I'm coming. _

He lifts his arm, pressing his middle finger to the print scanner on his wristband. It flashes once. He presses his thumb to it. It flashes again. Then it unlocks, throwing the holo-display up into the air in front of him. He shifts through it quickly, with sharp, efficient movements to open the calendar—

Three hundred days. 

It's been three hundred days since they last made contact with Shiro.

Three hundred days with no reply.

He's been slowly losing his mind. Nothing to keep him grounded. Nothing to keep him from doing something rash and reckless. Nothing to keep him from doing something desperate just to prove that Shiro was still out there. 

Until he found a new anchor in Lance. 

The bathroom door opens, letting loose a puff of steam. In all honesty, Keith's a little surprised this run down old hotel can even produce water that hot. Then again, maybe the ventilation system is just as broken. 

Lance steps through the haze, already dressed, tossing a towel to the floor. "Hey," he says, sidling up behind Keith, wrapping his arms around his waist, leaning forward to hook his chin over Keith's shoulder. 

He's warm. He's solid. He's grounding. Keith leans back into him, pressing against the sturdiness of his broad chest. Lets Lance tether him here, to this moment, before he can start floating away. 

"Whatchu doin'?" Lance mumbles, voice low and breath hot against the hollow beneath Keith's ear. He shivers, but he doesn't pull away.

"Thinking."

"'Bout what?"

"It's been three hundred days since we last made contact with Shiro."

Lance hums, and Keith can feel the vibration right down to his toes. Then he's lifting a hand, exiting out of the calendar and closing down Keith's holo-pad. "Yeah, well soon that counter is gonna drop back down to zero." His arm falls back around Keith's waist, tightening a fraction as he nuzzles into the crook of Keith's neck. "We're going to find him today. We're going to get him back."

Keith lets out a shaky breath, eyes drifting closed for just a moment as he tries to quell the nervous energy churning in his gut. "I hope so..."

"I know so." He kisses Keith's neck, gentle but firm, lips still pressed to his skin as he says, "I promise." He shifts then, stepping to Keith's side as he drapes an arm around his shoulders, leaning into him as he props his other hand on a hip, looking over the mess Keith's made of the bed. 

The blankets have been thrown back, draping pathetically onto the floor. The mattress is covered with gear. Both of their gear. Their bits of armor and belts. Their communicators. Their weapons and holsters. Their gloves and bracers. 

He hums thoughtfully. "This everything?”

"I've checked and double checked."

Lance lifts a hand, checking the time displayed on the inner wrist of his armband. "Better get ready, then. We're supposed to meet up with Pidge and Hunk in twenty minutes."

Keith lets out a short, sharp exhale. A puff of air caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "We'd be done already if you didn't take so long in the shower."

"Hey, beauty like this requires upkeep."

"Is there any point in me arguing that?"

"If you did, what would your points be?"

"That you're always beautiful."

Lance chuckles, soft and breathy. The hand around his shoulder shifts, running through Keith's hair and pushing his head closer so Lance can press his lips to Keith's temple. "You're sweet, but there's no point in arguing. I like my beauty routine."

"What's the point of showering right before a fight?"

Lance hums, fingers still idly playing with his hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. "It's grounding. Wakes me up. Gets me in the zone. Makes me feel ready to kick some ass. Kinda like how you do like, a million push-ups and sit-ups before a fight. You're probably gonna make yourself sore before you even get there, but you do it anyway."

"It gets me focused," Keith mumbles. His core and his arms are still burning. A distant, pleasant ache. Makes him hyper aware of his body. Gets his blood pumping. Gets rid of some of the anxious energy that always builds up when he knows a big fight is coming. A big score. A big mission. Takes the edge off the souring note of early adrenaline. 

Lance swings his hips, bumping into Keith's playfully. "Exactly." His hand slides down Keith's shoulder, down his back and the curve of his side. Squeezes his hip for a moment before letting go. "Alright, let's get ready before Pidge gets antsy and Hunk gets worried. They both like to be punctual to these kinda things."

Keith reaches for his knee pads, strapping the thick leather to his leg with practiced movements. He feels the corner of his lips curl into a small smirk. "They must hate working with you."

Lance shrugs, his own smirk in place as he straps the gun holsters to his thighs. "They've learned to appreciate my knack for winging it. Comes in handy when the plan goes to shit. Especially since the plan  _ always _ goes to shit."

Keith's hands slow, tension in his shoulders as he fiddles with the buckle of his belt. It's a new one, fit with all the small attachments for the knife Pidge got him. He runs his fingers over the small, metal squares. 

He doesn't realize there's an ache in his jaw, until he feels Lance's fingertips under his chin, forcing him to look up. "Hey," he says, voice soft and eyes searching. There's a fondness in the tilt of his smile, but a shrewd understanding in the lines at the corners of his eyes. "Stop grinding your teeth. Our plans  _ always _ go to shit.  _ Always _ . And that's never stopped us from succeeding. Our plans are just... guidelines, anyway. It'll be okay."

Keith looks to him then, dark violet eyes clashing with blue. The room is darkening, but the last of the crimson sunlight streams in through the pulled curtains. Hot and orange, silhouetting Lance's profile in the touch of flames. 

In the dark chill of night, it's easy to hide. Easy to put up a front and bury the things he feels deep within his heart of hearts. Easy to let the shadows cool his nerves and the neon lights fuel him like a driving force. 

But here, in the last rays of light, in the fire of a dying sun cast through the thick smog that hangs over the city, choking and suffocating, he can't help but feel stripped bare. Exposed and vulnerable. Unable to hide the churning anxiety that coils tight in his chest and burns like an itch beneath his skin. 

And for once, he doesn't pull back from the light, even though it burns. 

He faces Lance, feeling his heart laid open and bare, shredded and torn and barely held together anymore, bleeding and weary. He lets it show. In his eyes. In the twisted curve of his lips. In the lines that cut deep across his face. 

And Lance takes it in, eyes searching, hardened but ever kind. 

He reaches out, taking Keith by the arms and pulling him to his chest. Enveloping him. Wrapping around him. Hands smoothing down his back and fingers carding through his hair. Keith buries himself in it. Tucks his face into the crook of Lance's shoulder, wraps his arms around his waist, and holds on tight. Breathes in the smell of stale smoke, oiled leather, burnt oil, and cheap shampoo. 

Lets himself be broken and bare, and lets Lance hold him, steady him, stabilize him. 

"Hey," he breathes, low and steady, a hum that vibrates through his chest, anchoring Keith to him. "I promise you, we'll be fine. We've got the universe on our side. If you feel like you're out in space, if you start floating away, don't be afraid. I'll be there to catch you."

They stand there while the sun sets, the fiery glow slowly fading to the familiar cloak of night. Lance's hands never stop rubbing his back and carding through his hair. He hums softly, a song Keith doesn't know, backdropped by the flicker of neon lights that ignite the growing darkness. 

Half armored. Their adornments still littering the bed. One boot on and the other discarded on the floor. Only half their weapons holstered. Their communicators blinking but ignored. Their jackets draped across the one chair in the room. 

They end up being late, meeting up with the others where they parked their bikes for the day. Pidge scowls. Hunk is restless. Neither of them say anything. Not when they see the hard glint in Lance's eyes and the fire in his smile. 

* * *

"Have you tried it out yet?" Pidge asks, nodding to the knife strapped to Keith's thigh. 

He glances down at it, meeting her sharp amber eyes before giving a quick shake of his head. "No." But it's a knife. How hard can it be?

She sighs, exasperation pinching her brows as she scowls. "I swear to  _ fuck _ , you and Lance are perfect for each other," she mumbles as she scoots closer.

They're crouched in a dark alcove within sight of the compound. An old warehouse, run down and ramshackle, but not abandoned. Far from it. Billboards and advertisements cluster around it, casting flickering lights and humming with cracked tubes. The dissonance of their crackled phrases looping on repeat help drown out the noise from within. Help cast the building into shadow. Help mask what it really is.

A fully operational Galra compound. The current location of their Coliseum. Where they'll soon be hosting a round of gladiatorial style events with prisoners they've acquired, most of them enhanced bionically and chemically through experiments that aren't at all legal and definitely not stable. 

And somewhere in that building is Shiro. Their Champion. Their long running hero of the arena. Pidge pulled data on him. He's been able to withstand all their  _ experiments _ . Has fought for his life with a fire and bloodthirsty fervor that makes him a fan favorite. 

It makes Keith's chest ache. 

_ Experiments _ . 

_ Don't you be afraid _ , he thinks, imagining Shiro, hunched and alone and damn close to broken in a cell.  _ I'm coming. We're coming. _

But for now, they wait. 

He and Pidge are crouched in a crack in the wall. A cement wall with shattered plaster and chipped spray paint. Hunk and Lance are perched somewhere nearby, tucked away out of sight with their guns at the ready. 

They haven't seen the Blades yet, but he's gotten word that they're here. All they have to do now is wait for the signal. 

There's a buzz beneath his skin. The restless itch of adrenaline. His body feels tense, pulled taut in all directions, poised and ready to sprint. A fire burning and ready to melt rubber as soon as the light ticks down to green. 

" _ Hey _ ." Pidge's voice is sharp, fingers snapping in front of his eyes. He blinks, focusing back in on her. He hadn't realized he'd been drifting. 

"What?" 

"That knife. Remember how to use it?"

Another blink. Slow processing. A hesitant, "Yes?"

She huffs, holding out a hand, curling her fingers. He scowls, bottom lip turning out as he reluctantly reaches for the knife, pulling it from the sheath and flipping it around to slap the handle into Pidge's waiting palm. 

"Right. So this is a new kinda tech that we developed from some schematics we stole from both the Garrison and the Empire. Combined 'em. Tweaked 'em. Mixed in some ideas and half formed schematics we found in Allura's dad's old stuff. We call it a bayard. State of the art nanotech, brought to you by Punk Productions. That's me and Hunk, by the way—"

"Pidge."

"Right, so here you've got a regular old knife. Sturdy. Military grade steel. Forever sharp. Blah blah. Here," she reaches out, tapping her finger on the different small cubes attached to Keith's belt, "You have your mods." She flips the knife over, showing him the bottom of the handle. There's a groove there, a perfect slot for the small cubes to plug into. "This is where they plug in. They're attached to your belt in a similar way. There's a little button on the side to get them to release with a good tug, or they'll release automatically when you do this."

She slams the butt of the knife forward, jabbing it onto one of the cubes on Keith's belt with terrifying precision. It clicks into place instantly, fusing onto the bottom of the knife. She pulls it back, and the mod comes with it, easily releasing from his belt. 

The handle of the knife begins to glow, and she throws her hand out to the side. As she does, light crackles and sparks. A handle forms around her knuckles in an arch, creating a guard of crackling energy that darkness to look nearly solid. And... it might  _ be _ solid. He's seen how Lance's guns work, and the technology is incredible. 

From the guard, a blade shoots out. Not made of translucent energy like his Luxite blade. But solid. Gleaming beautiful and menacing in the flickering neon lights that dare to touch their shadowed alcove. It's a long blade. Straight and sharp. Pointed at the tip. 

" _ Whoa _ ," he breathes, voice hushed and awed as he stares at it with wide eyes. 

"Yeah," Pidge says, lips curled into a smug grin. "I thought you'd like this one."

Keith takes it from her, fingers curling around the handle and grip tightening, enjoying the way it fits snugly against the leather of his gloves. He rotates his arm and wrist, testing out the weight of it as he takes a few experimental swings. It feels good. Feels right. Feels like an extension of his arm. 

"The others are pretty cool, too—"

There's a thin, high pitched ringing. A solid note. Three seconds long. Emitting from the communicators they have fit snugly in one ear. Pidge winces, but Keith's head flies up. His heart slams into overdrive, adrenaline that had barely been held back finally surging past the flood gates and into his veins. Reacting instinctively to the familiar signal. 

His gaze snaps to Pidge's, meeting the fire in her eyes, mirroring the curl of her lips. There's an aura about her. Something small and fiery and dangerous. Something innately terrifying. Chaos embodied in one so small. He can see how she thrives in this world. 

Especially when she adjusts her glasses, neon lights catching on the lenses and gleaming bright, barely masking the hard-set eyes and emphasizing the mischievous grin. 

"Guess there's no time to test them, though."

And then they're off. Pushing from their small alcove of shadow. Feet digging into the cracked asphalt, crunching against loose rocks and gravel as they dart toward the building. 

He's ahead, but she's not far behind. Not because she's slow. Not because he's reckless. But because he's the spearhead, and she covers his back. She's the key, and he's the guard. 

Picking the lock on the side door takes too long, and Keith kicks it open in his impatience, flinching against the clatter of metal. But then Pidge is pushing past him, shoving a device into the first bit of security tech she can find, pulling up her holo-screen, fingers moving with quick precision—

The alarm starts up. Sharp and blaring. Howling louder than the adverts outside. Ringing into the night. Red lights flashing throughout the compound. A siren—

And then all goes quiet. 

All goes dark.

He sees Pidge's grin in the light from her holo-screen, sharp and wicked. 

A moment of silence. Of feeling weightless. Body tense and stiff, buzzing with the restless energy barreling through him. A moment in the nothingness. A moment of stillness. 

Floating in space. Floating away—

And then chaos erupts.

* * *

Everything is a blur of motion, caught and trapped in moments of flashing lights. Broken up by the slice of darkness between pulses. 

The air is hot and hazy, thick with the smell of burning flesh and blood, with the scent of grease and metal. 

The silence is shattered, completely consumed with shouts and the clamor of weapons. Metal on metal. The sizzle of energy. The pulse and ringing shots of gunfire. Deep sonic booms and high pitched pistols. Scrape of swinging chains. Clash of swords and pipes. Snap and crackle of localized lightning, burning in neon colors, hot and deadly. 

Screams of fury. Screams of terror. Screams of pain. 

Keith moves on autopilot. His body moves before actions are strictly thought through. His mind is in a haze, separated from himself, only aware of his surroundings enough to react to them. Unfocus. Pay attention. See a motion, a swing, an enemy, then strike. React. Charge ever forward. 

He doesn't know where he's going, he only knows that the prisoners would be held deeper. And he can't get there without cutting through the obstacles in his way. So he does. Bayard in one hand, blade straight and sharp. Marmora blade in the other, energy blade curved and wicked, pulsing with bright purple light that crackles and lights his way.

Noise everywhere.

He feels alone in a storm. In an ever surging sea. But he's not alone. He knows he's not. He can hear his friends somewhere nearby. He catches glimpses of members of the Blade. They're outnumbered by the Galra, but they make up for it with their precision. With their skill. With their merciless training and fierce conviction. 

He can't focus on them. Can only focus on what's directly ahead. On cutting through those he faces. 

Body acting. Reacting. Automatic. Block a blow, swing his sword. A body falls, and he moves forward, only to be blocked by another. Fighting with two weapons is new, but it feels oddly right. Feels good. Feels natural. 

But there's so much happening.

Too much.

The brawl is chaotic. It's never ending. Time falls into the haze, but he feels the ache in his body. Feels the blow after blow. Feels the bruises forming. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep up this grueling pace, but he has to. He has to find Shiro. He has to keep going. 

All systems are critical— he can't find his way through— feels like there's nowhere to go. 

He's not moving forward. He's being pushed back. He bites his tongue. Tastes the blood. He needs— he needs— Lance— needs him to say—

A shot slices past his cheek. He feels the burn of it. Sees the bright blue flash of it. Watches with wide eyes as it sinks into the chest of the man he's struggling with. Sees it char cloth and skin, singed black and smoking around the clean hole. Sees the man freeze, eyes wide, as the air rushes out of his lungs. 

The Galra stumbles back, hand lifted shakily to his chest, expression confused as blood starts to pool at the corner of his lip.

And then he falls. 

" _ Get your head in the game, samurai _ ," Lance's voice crackles through his coms. 

His heart races, head whipping around. He finds Lance easily. Zeroing in on him perched up high within the compound, claiming the high ground. His gun is long, morphed into a sniper rifle. Trained on Keith's location. 

His chest squeezes, pleasant heat surging through him.

" _ Don't you go floating away _ ," Lance whispers, voice low and grounding. " _ Don't be afraid." _

"I'm not," he snaps, instant and heated, fizzling out as his voice shakes. 

Lance just hums. " _ Keep going. Pidge and Hunk are waiting for you on the other side of the compound. I'll clear a path for you." _

He turns at the sound of footsteps, blades barely settling into a defensive position before the Galra drops, a bullet wound still smoking at his forehead. 

Keith feels a smirk curl his lips, satisfaction wicked and sharp as he digs his boots in and sprints ahead, Lance's eyes at his back.

* * *

They charge through the twisting, winding corridors of the compound. It's a maze of a layout, larger than any of the other places he's scoped out in the past few months. They've left the loud clamor of the main fight behind, unsure of who's winning. They have to trust that the Blades and the Paladin allies can take care of themselves. All they can do is run ahead. Complete the mission.

The place is still enveloped in darkness, and without the flashing lights shining through the grime covered windows of the main room, he pulls his goggles down haphazardly over his eyes to see in the shadowed halls. 

Pidge and Hunk follow at his heels, their boots pounding against metal and concrete. Lance is in their ear, guiding them forward with sharp, quick commands. Keith isn't sure how he's able to see where they are or how he can see the Galra coming, but he's beyond questioning it. Pidge mumbles something about a special scope on his sniper rifle. Keith isn't surprised.

There's something about Lance's voice, confident and firm, commanding and demanding. Trusting that they'll follow him without hesitation. Unwavering in his orders. It _does_ _something_ to Keith. Twists up a heat deep inside his gut. Squeezes at his heart and flutters in his stomach. A familiar buzz of interest itching beneath his skin.

But this isn't the time or the place. 

It's interesting, though. He files that away for later. 

They come across several smaller pockets of Galra. Guards and small packs of grunts running through the hallways in the chaos. With the systems down, he's certain that none of them really know what's going on. But most are surging in one of two directions: toward the main fight and further back into the compound, toward the cages. 

That's where they're headed.

Deeper into the belly of the beast. 

Deeper into the unknown. 

They have to find Shiro. Gotta make contact— Gotta make it out—

With Pidge and Hunk at his back— Pidge wicked sharp with a crackling taser of a knife and a seamless whip— Hunk with a barrel of a gun and a scowl on his hardened features— and with Lance's voice in his ear, he's anchored. 

He knows he won't be getting lost. Not in this compound, and not in the fight. Not in his head. Not in space. 

He's not afraid of floating away. 

* * *

" _ Dead ahead _ ," Lance says through their coms. " _ That door. It leads into the cages. There's... there's a lot of people back there." _

"We're getting them all out," Keith says through gritted teeth, stopping in front of the door, sizing it up. His gaze drifts to the scanner at the side. "Pidge—"

She surges past him, throwing her fist forward. Her bayard is curled around her hand, creating a sharp V-like knife of a knuckle duster. She punches right through the scanner, sparks of energy crackling and electricity popping. 

Keith lets out a sharp curse, flinching away as it sparks and flashes. 

But then the door in front of him opens, and he looks to Pidge. One eyebrow raised. She pulls her fist back, lips curled into a mischievous smirk as she shrugs. "It's faster."

"You guys go ahead." They turn to Hunk, who's standing back in the hall. He has a new attachment hooked into his bayard and shoots several metal pods at different points along the walls. They stick, metal claws sinking into the concrete as they expand. Turrets. Humming with energy that starts building inside them, aimed down the hall. He hefts his thick gun with both hands, planting his feet in the center of the corridor. He looks over his shoulder, grin wide and eyes glinting dangerously. "I'll keep this way covered. Get everyone out. I'll clear the path."

"You got it," Pidge says with a short salute before slipping through the open door. 

Keith hesitates a moment longer, meeting Hunk's gaze with a hardened look of his own. "Be careful."

Hunk nods, grin in place even as his voice is solemn. "You, too." 

* * *

The cells are thick and crowded with bodies. Crammed into the makeshift cages. Little room to move. Hardened eyes and gaunt faces. Sharp sneers and haunted gazes. The hint of wounds. The glint of attachments. The flash of scars. 

Fear and anger quickly morph into confusion, awe, and then sharp victory as Keith and Pidge charge through the holding facility, systematically opening the cages. Freeing the prisoners. The Galra's warriors. People stolen from their homes and forced to fight for the Empire's entertainment. 

Keith and Pidge free them. 

Tell them there's a fight going on. Tell them to run. To be backup to the Blade. To get the hell out. To wreak havoc. To tear the Empire asunder. To rip them apart. 

They open cage after cage. Cell after cell. They free the prisoners until there are none left. 

But Shiro isn't here. 

* * *

There are more rooms in the maze of a warehouse. Rooms at the back, filled with machinery and medical equipment, all looking sharp and ominous. They make Keith's stomach churn. Makes his blood burn and boil, pulse ringing in his ears. 

Most of them are empty.

Some are not.

They take care of the few Galra who are around. These aren't foot soldiers. Aren't grunts. Aren't gang members valued for their bloodthirsty eyes and merciless spirit. They’re scientists. Medical professionals. Researchers. Those with morals just as low and loose, but without the combat training to defend themselves. 

Easy.

They fight. They free the prisoners. They move on.

They find him in the last room at the end of a dark hallway, lit only with a dimly glowing purple backup light that pulses in strips along the floor. 

Keith bursts into the room, kicking the door open hard enough to make it slam against the wall. He pauses just within, taking it all in. 

A hovering bed in the center of the room, designed to be pushed and moved. Machines beeping, even in the dark. Slow pulsing lights illuminating surprised and startled faces. Two people, dressed in lab coats, blood on their hands as they try to strap someone to the bed—

_ Shiro _ .

Even through his night-vision lenses, Shiro looks different. A thick scar across his face, marring the bridge of his nose. A tuft of white hair. Scars adorning what Keith can see of his body, though most of it is hidden by a tight black bodysuit. His arm—

His arm is gone. Cut off just above the elbow. 

He looks so different. Older. Haunted. Fiercer in the eyes and more savage in the way he thrashes. But he's still Shiro. Keith's entire body lurches, mind spinning—

He's been imagining this moment for so long. Dreaming of it. Dreading it. Waiting for it. Searching for it. 

Now he's here. Shiro's here.

He found him. 

_ He found him _ .

He made contact.

_ They have to make it out.  _

The Galra shift, and Keith drops into a defensive stance. Fists up. Eyes narrowed. It doesn't take much to take them out. To knock them out. They fall easily. They attempt to fight back, but they're uncoordinated and scared. He sees the way they flinch when the butt of his hilt whips across their faces. When his blades cut deep.

He's not one for mercy.

Not right now.

"K-Keith...?" Shiro's voice rips him back to reality. Low and hoarse, cracked and broken. A ragged whisper of disbelief. Of hope that dares not shine. 

"Shiro...," he breathes, rushing to where Pidge is cutting the straps that hold him down. He helps Shiro up, one arm wrapped behind his shoulders. Shiro leans into him heavily, breath ragged and chest heaving. "I'm here...," he whispers. "I'm here..."

Shiro's eyes close, somehow relaxing even while tension still runs tight through him. "You're... here... this is real...?"

"Don't you be afraid," Keith says, helping him off the bed, slinging his one arm over his shoulders, bracing himself as Shiro stands and Keith takes most of his weight. "I promise you will be fine. We've got the universe on our side."

He sees Shiro's small smile, pained as it is. Feels his own curve in response, despite the ache in his chest. 

"Hate to break up the reunion," Pidge says, hovering in the doorway, head peeking out into the hall. "But we gotta go." She puts a finger to her earpiece. "Hey, Lance, we've got him."

" _ Shiro? _ "

"Yeah."

" _ Thank fuck _ ." Lance's relief is palpable. Makes Keith almost smile. Makes his heart giddy. " _ We've got the Galra mostly pinned, but we think they've called for back up. We gotta get out of here, so hurry up. Hunk and I will cover your escape. _ "

"On it. Ready Keith?"

He nods, steps wavering but strong as he shoulders Shiro's weight. 

He won't be afraid. 

* * *

It's a blur, but he's not drifting. He's firmly anchored by the heat of Shiro's body and the weight of him clinging to Keith's shoulders. He's grounded by Lance's voice in his ear, sharp and commanding, firm and confident despite sounding tight and ragged. He's guided by Pidge, led through dark corridors filled with smoke and pulsing lights. 

He doesn't know what's on fire. 

He doesn't care.

He hopes this whole place burns. 

Soon there are more people, but the Galra don't approach them. Can't get to them. Not through the Blades and allies they have surrounding them. Not as the Galra are pushed to retreat. The path is clear, and once Hunk finds them, he blazes a trail that they stumble after, desperate for freedom—

Heart pounding—

Blood pumping—

Ears ringing—

_ Hope. Hope. Hope _ —

Then they're free. They're outside the building, out in the open air. There's a chill in the night, humid with the light drizzle that's begun. It's cool on their skin. Gathers in puddles that splash under their feet. 

They run as fast as they can. As far from the building as they can. Until they're met with fellow Blades who help take Shiro, who get him loaded up on a transport vehicle so they can get the hell out. Get him to safety so he can be checked out. Several of the other freed prisoners are also being helped up onto bikes and hover cars. 

All that's left is for Keith to get to his own bike, and—

"Where's Lance?" He asks suddenly, not even aware that his eyes are scanning the crowd for him until he can't find him. 

"I don't know," Hunk sounds worried, already ahead of Keith in that department, eyes scrambling and lip caught between his teeth. 

" _ I'm fine, just get out of here _ ," comes Lance's voice through gritted teeth. 

"Where are you?" Keith snaps.

" _ I'm fin _ —"

"Where. Are. You?"

".... _ I'm still in the building, surrounded, but I'll be fine. You just get Shiro out. I'll catch up—" _

Keith stops listening. Turns on his heel to face the tall man helping secure Shiro, helping keep him lucid. "Ulaz, can you get him out of here?"

The man's eyes snap to his, hard and certain, calculating as he looks Keith over, hovering on the pinch between his brows and the scowl on his lips. "I've got it."

"I'm trusting you."

"We'll meet you back at the safehouse. You know which one?"

Keith nods, already spinning on his heel to charge back toward the warehouse. Back the way they'd come. 

"Where are you going?!" Pidge shouts after him. 

"I'm getting our idiot out," he hisses through their coms. "I'm coming, Lance. I promise you will be fine."

" _ I'm not afraid _ ."

* * *

All systems are critical, but he finds his way back to Lance.

Finds him pinned down, gun fire from all sides. He'd stayed behind as everyone evacuated. That much is obvious. That much Keith  _ knows _ . Because no matter how merciless, no matter how stained, no matter how much he thrives in the lower city life, Lance is— at his heart— a selfless man.

A stupid, reckless, selfless man.

He'd stayed behind while his allies ran, covered their backs, and now he's paying the price. Trapped inside and unable to escape on his own.

But he's not on his own.

Not as long as Keith still breathes. 

The Blade would have left him. Because even though they're a team— a well oiled machine— they're a gang that thrives on one simple principle: the good of the whole is more important than the well being of the one. Sacrifice is often a necessity. It's hard to deal with, but so is life. If a Blade member had made the same sacrifice Lance had, the same selfless decision, they would've grimly accepted it, gotten away, and mourned him with respect. 

It's never settled well with Keith. 

There are plenty of times when he's usurped that rule. Gone rogue. Gone against orders just to save someone. 

He's been reprimanded. He's been thanked. Things haven't changed. 

No, things  _ have _ changed. 

Not the Blade, no. But  _ him _ . He's changed. He can't do it anymore. He can't pretend he doesn't care. He can't pretend his attachments don't matter. He can't pretend he doesn't  _ care _ . He can't pretend his friends don't matter. 

Lance matters.

Lance matters a  _ lot _ .

It takes him only a moment to assess the situation, and only half a second longer to rush into action. He slips along the outskirts of the room, sticking to the shadows on silent feet until he comes up on the Galra pinning Lance. One by one, Keith takes them out. 

His only mercy is that it's quick. Silent. They probably feel no pain. It's more than they deserve. 

One by one, they drop in the darkness. The pulsing violet lights casting shadows across their bodies. Smoke starts to fill the room, burning the back of his throat. 

Keith makes it to Lance's hiding spot as the last of the gunfire ceases. As the room is momentarily cast into silence. Outside, beyond, they can hear the chaos still. The shouts. The sirens. The cracked and stuttering robotic sounds of advertisements flickering through the same programed phrases. 

But for a moment, here and now, things are still.

As he rounds the corner, he freezes, finding himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Finding himself pinned with eyes like ice, violet light igniting the hard and bloody planes of his sharp features. 

"Lance...," he breathes, relief surging through his veins. 

The gun lowers. The hardened look on his face cracks. Disbelief and relief, all at once. "Keith..."

He doesn't know who steps forward first. Doesn't care. One moment they're apart, and the next they're together. Arms wrapped tight, weapons held aside and behind as their faces bury in shoulders and necks. 

There are lips pressed to the hollow beneath his ear. 

He presses his to Lance's temple. 

" _ Ground control to Keith _ ," comes Pidge's voice.

" _ Keith? Have you found him yet? _ " Hunk's voice cuts through their coms. 

"Yeah," he says, voice cracking. Surprisingly ragged. Thick with his heart in his throat. "Yeah, I've got him.

"I'm okay, Hunk," Lance says, voice muffled in Keith's neck. 

" _ Whatever reunion you idiots are having, cut it short _ ," comes Pidge's voice, short and curt in her urgency. " _ The Galra have backup coming, and we gotta go. Hunk and I are waiting by your bikes to cover you." _

"Got it," Lance says, pulling away from Keith, only to push forward. To capture his lips. To tilt his head and press their mouths firmly together, melding together. It feels grounding, even as his heart soars out into space. It feels so right. Here in Lance's arms. Sweat stained and blood drying on their hands. Here, with Lance's lips on his, desperate and firm. Lance breaks the kiss, putting his forehead to Keith's, pushing in hard while his hand moves to the back of his head, holding him in place. 

It hurts. It's perfect. Lance's grin is wicked in the pulsing violet lights. Eyes backlit with a fire that has Keith's toes curling. 

"I told you we'll be fine."

Keith feels his lips curl. An answering smirk. A grin that starts in his chest and ignites, burning up his throat to singe his lips in a wildfire. "Guess the universe is on our side." 

He won't be afraid, no.

Not anymore.

Not with Lance at his side. 

Even if he starts floating away, they'll be fine.

Lance chuckles, low and dark, pulling him back the way he'd come. "Come on, let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
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	10. Track 10: Afterglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright  
> We can go all night  
> 'Cause we got a whole lot of fight in us  
> And I see a long road  
> That we gotta follow  
> Before tomorrow catches up
> 
> Oh, just take it easy  
> Hold onto this feeling  
> All our friends are leaving  
> And we ain't got nowhere to go  
> Caught up in the afterglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thank you everyone for joining me for this ride <33 This fic has meant a lot to me, and it was an experiment in style that I greatly enjoyed. I can't listen to this album without having immense klance feels, and I hope you'll all now join me in that! This song is one of my favorites on the album, and one of my fav chapters to write.
> 
> If you enjoy my writing, share it! Give my other works a read. Subscribe to get emails when I upload. Follow me on my social media to learn about what I'll be working on next!
> 
> KICK <33 Happy reading!

Voltron is a beautiful sight. The light rigs and sound system are unlike anything else in the city, courtesy of Pidge, Hunk, and Matt. Not to mention a lot of gear smuggled out of the upper city from Rolo and Nyma. 

With every pound of the bass, the whole building vibrates. A heartbeat. A reverberation that everyone feels down to their bones. Something that connects them all. Grounds them. Keeps them glued to the floor as their bodies writhe on the dance floor. Keeps them anchored when their high takes them far from here. 

The lights that flash, shifting through colors, through patterns. They’re designed to give a good show. To take a high and make it a  _ trip _ . Designed to avoid all the bad shit and triggers. Only good sparks and neurons in the brain, or whatever. Lance isn’t up to date on the science. That’s Matt’s thing. 

All Lance knows is that it makes this club beautiful. Makes the chrome white decorations  _ shine _ . Ignites the decor with every color of the goddamn rainbow. 

Allura and Coran poured a lot of love into this place. Kept it from being just another ratty club on the strip. Just another spot of noise and color in the depths of the lower city. Yeah, it’s flashy, but it’s  _ more _ . Not just covering up cracked cement floors, grimy bar tops, and dirty windows with bad drugs and bright lights. 

Nah. None of that shit. Voltron ain’t a ruse. 

Fixed up building, kept up to date and actually maintained. All that money Allura managed to get before her dad went under poured back into this place. Made a good base of operations as she struck out on her own. And a lot of their money pours back into it. A place like this could easily fit in the upper city, all sparkling and pristine. A place for the richer types to get a  _ taste _ of the underworld. To see what it’s like to live like them without actually having to dip down to the streets. 

Allura could make it big up there, but she doesn’t want that. 

She likes it down here. So do the rest of them. They’ve seen too much. Done too much. Lived too much. Up there? Shit’s blinding. Shit’s atop a tower set to crumble. Down here? They got nowhere to go but up. 

Besides, they’ve got  _ business _ down here. Professional and personal. If they leave, the Galra will run amuck again. Make shit worse down here for people who don’t deserve that. People who get ignored by those with actual power. 

That’s fine. That’s what the Paladins are for. To stick up for the little guy. To keep this city running properly. To give a shit when no one else in this shitty world will. 

Yeah, Lance likes it just fine down here. Better to live down here like kings, than live up there like scum. 

So yeah, Voltron is a beautiful sight. Good building. Good decor. Good lights. Good music. Good drinks. Good drugs. Good  _ morals _ . 

Home sweet home. 

Lance lifts his glass to his lips, taking a long pull of something that comes on sweet but goes down with a burn. One of Coran’s new concoctions. Lowers the glass, head tilting in consideration. Licks his lips.  _ Not bad.  _

He lowers his arm once more, leaning forward, both forearms resting against the railing at their club top balcony. The exclusive area. Paladins only. From here, he can see the whole club below. Bodies writhing in a mass, indistinguishable from one another, shifting in time with the beat, lit up with neon and  _ alive _ . Truly and undeniably  _ alive _ . 

The fuckers in the upper city may think they’ve got living down to an art, but nothing is quite as alive as the lower city. Down here,  _ this _ is where people really understand. Really know what it’s like to embrace what little time they all have. 

“Fuck, it’s good to be home,” he says, head bobbing idly to the beat. 

“A-fucking-men,” he hears Pidge say from the lounge couches behind him. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You’ll drink to anything,” Matt jabs. 

“Fuck off. I’m basking in the afterglow.”

And that’s just what they’re doing, isn’t it? Running on the leftover adrenaline and fumes of the thrill. Of victory. Of a successful mission. Of fucking diving into the biggest fight they’ve been in for a while and coming out  _ alive _ . 

They found Shiro. They’ve got two new Paladins. They have a strong alliance with the Blade. They’re working on deals with the Garrison. They fucked up a huge part of the Empire’s slave fighting ring bullshit. They’re staking claim, pushing the Galra back, and now they’re  _ home _ . Living like kings. 

Caught up in the afterglow. 

Lance idly taps a finger against the glass dangling in his grip, hovering over the dance floor below, enjoying the  _ click _ of his rings as they make contact. He watches the doors below like a hawk. Alert. Attention fixated, even as a pleasant buzz tingles through his veins. 

He waits…

And waits…

And—  _ there _ .

Keith and Shiro step into the club, breezing past the bouncers at the door with sharp nods. 

And  _ damn _ do they look good. Even from this distance, at his perch high above, Lance can admire them.

Shiro’s gained a lot of strength since they’ve gotten him back. Though, the healing pod they nicked from the Garrison a couple years back certainly has a lot to do with that. Point is, he’s standing on his own now. Tall and confident. His eyes are still haunted. Still sharp as they look over his shoulder. Still has moments where everything becomes tight and tense and Keith or Matt has to talk him down from wherever he is. 

But he’s starting to look more like the man Lance remembers. The commander, mentor, and teacher at the Garrison. The guy Lance always admired and wanted to be. 

He might have once been cut from military cloth, and Lance might have once said nothing suited him more than a uniform, but he now sees that he was wrong. Dressed for the streets. Combat boots. Leather straps for his weapons. A long jacket with a Paladin logo emblazoned on it in black. Scars that cut across his features. Eyes that would give anyone chills. The glow of his new cybernetic arm.

Yeah, he fits in just fine down here. Looks like he damn near belongs in the lower city. Who knows? Maybe he does. 

And at his side, Keith cuts an impressive figure of his own. A figure that draws Lance’s attention for more reasons. Because hot  _ damn _ , does his man look  _ fine _ . 

His hair is longer. Still in that braid Lance did for him earlier today, runaway strands falling free to frame his face. He’s got scars of his own, though Lance knows the extent of them far more intimately than just the ones that show. All tall confidence, chill held high, tension from the streets oozing out of his shoulders as he melds with the atmosphere. He stands there like he belongs here.

Which, Lance supposes, he does. 

He’s traded in his black and purple Blade jacket for a new one. A red and black one. Fake leather, soft and worn, despite being new. Cut short at the torso, showing off where his shirt clings to a narrow waist. On the back is the Paladin symbol, bold and bright in red. 

They pause as they reach the dance floor, and Keith, hands in his pockets, tilts his head back.

Meets Lance’s eye.

Smiles this devilish little smirk that never fails to make Lance’s insides twist. 

And then Lance turns, sauntering back over to the little circle of couches propped up on a dais. Specifically for him and his friends. The Paladins. Owners. VIPs. Kings and Queens. 

He steps up and lets himself drop onto one of the couches. Legs stretched out. Leaning back into a corner with one arm on the armrest and the other stretched out over the back cushion. His glass dangles from his fingertips. “Keith and Shiro are back.”

“About time,” Pidge mumbles, sitting cross legged across the couch, sunken into the cushions, lost in whatever she’s typing on her data-pad. 

“How’d you think it went?” Hunk lays on another couch, eyes distant and pupils blown. He’s idly tapping his fingers on his stomach, in a rhythm somewhat matching the music below. Feet propped up in Matt’s lap.

“Fifty bucks says the Garrison told them to fuck off.”

“You’re on.”

Matt makes a show of shaking Hunk’s boot to seal the deal. 

Lance lifts the drink to his lips. Sipping gently. Feeling the bump of ice. Eyes locked on the entrance. Feeling his insides thrumming with excitement. Taut with anticipation. 

And then Shiro and Keith are sweeping past the bouncers, sauntering right on into the Paladin’s upper floor. Like they belong. Because they  _ do _ . 

Lance grins around the rim of his glass, locking eyes with Keith. 

There’s barely a pause in his stride as he makes his way over to Lance. Takes the glass out of his loose fingertip grip. Wraps his other hand beneath Lance’s chin to tilt his head back just as he leans down. Captures Lance’s mouth in a heated, messy kiss. Uncoordinated. All tongue and teeth. 

It makes Lance’s toes curl. 

Then Keith is pulling back, giving Lance this private little smirk, eyes lidded as he lifts Lance’s glass to his lips and downs the rest of the drink. Lance can’t bring himself to mind, eyes fixed on the bob of Keith’s throat. 

“How’d it go?” Matt asks. 

Keith grunts. Shrugs. Drops the glass carelessly on the table as he practically throws himself down onto the couch, nestled right up in Lance’s lap. Like he belongs there.  _ Because he does _ . “The Garrison are pricks. What else is new.”

“They’re just wary,” Shiro says as he steps up to them, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “It’s not every day an old missing-presumed-dead commander and an expelled cadet come knocking on their door asking about deals with one of the gangs of the under city.”

“Yeah, well, they’d be stupid not to take us up on the offer.” Lance’s hand finds Keith’s hip. Slides up his side. Down his thigh. “With their help, we could really get rid of the Galra for good. Tear down the Empire and actually protect this city. They need us as much as we need them.”

Hunk reaches back, waving a hand toward Shiro until it makes contact with his jacket. Fingers uncoordinated as they curl into the fabric and tug lightly. He looks back at Shiro, grin goofy and wide. “So? How’d it go?”

Shiro shrugs. “It’s a work in progress. Where’s Allura? I should report to her.”

Hunk lets go of Shiro’s coat to wave in the direction of the bar. “In the back room. Talking to Romelle, I think. Something about some new concoction? Actually, maybe I should be there, too. Was I supposed to be there for that?”

They watch as Matt and Shiro help Hunk off the couch, half carrying him and half watching him stumble toward the back room. 

“Hey, Pidge,” Keith says, leaning back against Lance’s chest, hair tickling just below his chin. 

“Mmm?” She lifts a brow but doesn’t bother looking up from her screen. Her eyes have the same hazy quality of Hunk’s, but there’s a focus in them. One that’s relentless and unforgiving. 

“Did you have time to work on that quint blend I asked about?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, right.” Eyes still fixed to her screen, she digs around in a pocket, pulling out a little box and tossing it vaguely in their direction. “Catch.”

Keith does, despite the throw being way off mark. He presses his finger to the little screen at the top. Watches the light flash. Takes the little square of quint that’s dispensed before turning to Lance, holding it up as an offering. 

Lance opens his mouth. Obliging. Trusting. It starts to dissolve the moment Keith lays it on his tongue. 

_ Cinnamon. Vanilla. Sugar. _

“I asked Pidge to work on a new flavor.”

Lance’s brows furrow, lips pursed, but not because it tastes  _ bad _ , but because— “These… taste like my mom’s cookies?”

Keith’s eyes are practically sparkling. Smile wide and pleased. “Good.” He takes a hit himself, nuzzling into Lance’s chest. Tucking himself in Lance’s arms and beneath his chin as their high starts to settle in. 

Neither of them say anything as the tingling feeling spreads through their limbs. As the taste of vanilla and spice settle on their tongues. 

They ain’t got nowhere to go, caught up in the afterglow.

* * *

They step outside in the midnight rain. 

Stumbling out into the night. Clutching at each other. Holding each other up. Their laughter echoing off the buildings that tower around them, muffled in the drizzle and lost in the clash of advertisements and traffic above. 

Boots splash through puddles, disrupting the reflections, casting technicolor droplets into the air. The flash of colors play off their skin. Shine in their eyes. Add shadows to their features that hide the scars. Hide the lines of exhaustion. 

All they feel is elation. 

Young blood flowing through their veins. It keeps them numb like Novocaine. 

They stumble to their bikes. Swinging onto the seats. Straddling the leather. Plugging in their crystal keys and slapping hands down on the scanners. Keith’s bike has a new paint job. Swapped in the black and purple for cherry red. Decked out with all the embellishments, bells, and whistles. Perks of being friends with young geniuses and talented engineers. 

Their bikes roar to life. Hum beneath them with vibrations that reverberate down to their cores. Bring life to their bones. Settle in them with that familiar thrum of  _ power _ . 

They rise off the ground. Gripping the handlebars. Revving the engines as they exchange glances. 

Eyes sharp and holding fast. Alight with so much— too much— everything. 

Grins wild and untamed. Wide enough to age. Crazed enough to be mad. Primal in the surge of unkempt delight. 

Keith takes off first, and Lance is right behind him. Closing in. Keeping pace. Racing through the streets. Neck ’n neck. Weaving around obstacles. Owning the night. Owning the lower city. Owning this place they’ve carved out for themselves. 

Power.

Speed.

Freedom.

_ Life _ . 

They take it easy. No pressure. No stress. No doubts. No fears. They have nowhere to go. Just riding for the sake of it. Lance holds onto this feeling. Clutches it tight and holds it close to his heart. 

A long road to follow before tomorrow catches up. Chasing the night. Running from the sunrise. Can’t stay here, but can’t go home.

Caught up in the afterglow.

* * *

Lance relishes in it. The chase. The posturing. The spark of adrenaline. The fire that burns. The challenge. The bite of pain. The way his blood sings when he swings. The ache in his bones. Deep in his muscles. Fighting, not for his life, but for fun. 

Brawls.

Just like old times. When he and Keith were young and dumb. Oblivious to the world. Living in the upper city. Looking for a kick. A hit. A taste of something  _ real _ . Something  _ exciting _ . 

They fought then like kids. 

They fight now like animals. 

Weapons stored away. They’re not here for the kill. They’re here for the hell of it. To raise hell. To tear it down. A turf war, yeah, but not with the Empire. Nothing quite so serious. Just some punks. Some upstarts. Thinking they can call out a couple of Paladins. Thinking it’s smart to run their mouths. In dire need of a lesson. One Lance and Keith are more than willing to give. 

The backstreet is thick with bodies. On the strip of clubs and drug dens across the city from Voltron. People pouring out into the night. Glazed with the light drizzle of rain. Ignited by the neon lights. 

A circle forms around them as they size up their opponents. A couple tall. One small, probably fast. A couple built like fucking tanks. Five against two.

Lance glances over at Keith. Meets his gaze. Locks in. Feels a shiver sizzle down his spine like lightning when faced with that devilish smirk. One that he’s known for a long while. The same one that used to get them in trouble at the Garrison. The one that means Keith is confident. Playful.  _ Excited _ . 

His boy wants a fight. Wants to feel the impact beneath his knuckles and taste blood on his tongue. 

Keith’s always been an adrenaline junkie. And yeah, if he’s being honest, so is Lance. More than that, he’s a  _ Keith _ junkie. And there’s a spark of challenge in Keith’s eyes that he can’t ignore. Feels it tug right at his very bones. Dancing to the strings that Keith pulls. 

Five against two.

A fair fight, he’d say.

A long fight, but fair. And it’s alright. They’ve got all night. A whole lot of fight in them. 

“Hey, Keith?” He cocks his head to one side, then the other, making a show of stretching out his arms, rotating them, cracking his fingers. 

“Yeah?” It’s more of a grunt than an actual word, edged with a hum of acknowledgement. Keith has no showmanship. Just stands there staring down their opponents. Eyes single minded and focused. Body practically thrumming with energy, wound tight, curled, poised, ready. Deceptively at ease. A panther ready to pounce. 

“How long do you think they’ll last?” Keith looks at him then, one eyebrow raised, and Lance just shrugs, gesturing to the others across the growing circle. “There’s five of them and only two of us.”

“Great observation,” he says dryly.

To which Lance only beams. “Thank you. Now I’m thinking at  _ least _ ten minutes. But they’ve got a lot of moxie challenging us, so maybe they’ll go for a full thirty.” He tilts his head, calling louder into the crowd while keeping his eyes on the five. They’re spreading out, whispering to each other, cracking their knuckles and puffing out their chests. “Pidge, you timing this?” 

“Better. I’m filming it!” He hears Pidge’s reply, even if he doesn’t see her. He knows she’s in the crowd somewhere with Hunk. It had been simple rounds. Heading around to their dealers. Checking up on shit. 

But then this guy got a little handsy with Keith as they were walking through a club. And Keith might’ve broken his wrist if Lance hadn’t beat him to it. Instead, Lance had broken his nose. Push came to shove. A lot of talk was thrown around. Kicked out of the club. Fight on the streets. 

The usual. 

“Awesome,” Lance calls before tilting his head back towards Keith. “Smile for the camera, babe. Show off a little so I have something good to watch later.”

But instead, Keith reels things back, brows furrowed and lip curled. “Moxie? Really?”

“What? I’m trying out archaic words. Like it?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

A flash of a smirk. A glint in those dangerous eyes, lidded and dark. He straightens a little. Curving his back just right. Lifting his chin high to show the column of his neck. Gaze raking Lance up and down, slow and purposeful, feeling like hot coals. When their eyes lock again, Lance is left frozen, breath caught in his throat. 

Keith looks like he’s about to eat him alive. Hungry and predatory. 

And  _ fuck _ if Lance isn’t down for that. 

“I’ll show you fun later, sharpshooter.”

A hot curl of arousal unfurls in Lance’s gut, heat in his veins and sparks igniting across his skin. 

“Hey, assholes!” Someone calls. Cutting through their moment. Earning them twin glares as Keith and Lance whip around to scowl at their opponents. To their credit, they don’t flinch. Merely hold their ground and scoff. “We doing this anytime soon?”

“Right.” Something shifts inside him. That heat morphing into something else. Something sharper. Something more focused. Fueling that part of him that always lies just beneath the surface. A beast lurking in the shadows. Eager to lash out. The primal urge to  _ fight _ . To  _ claw _ . To  _ win _ . Lance grins, and he can feel it’s a tad too wide. Eyes a tad too sharp. “I’m always down for a little foreplay. Keith?”

Keith licks his lips. Runs that sinful tongue over his teeth. Sucking on his canines. Speaks in a hushed whisper. Private and low. Just between them. “Bet I can take down more than you.”

“You’re on.”

Split lips. Bruises blooming on skin, dark when illuminated by the neon lights. Blood dripping, tasting metallic, merging with the rain that runs down their cheeks. Scraped knuckles. Aching muscles. 

The burn. The Adrenaline. Young blood running through their veins. Keeping them numb like Novocaine. 

King and queen of the streets again. Caught up in the afterglow.

* * *

Lance’s apartment is messy. Keith’s things mingle with his own, not quite having found their own place yet. And yet Lance can’t quite bring himself to mind. Not when it means Keith is here, living with him, sharing his space. Their clutter blends together. One singular mess. 

_ Theirs _ . 

Home. 

A trail of clothes lead from the door to the bed. Still warm from their body heat. Haphazardly discarded in their haste. In their single minded drive. In their  _ need _ . 

He sits back on his bad, surrounded by tangled and wrinkled sheets. Back nestled on the pillows propped up against the headboard. His heels dig into the old mattress, giving himself leverage as he thrusts his hips upward, hard and fast, meeting every bounce of Keith atop him. 

Keith, straddling his hips. Hands braced on the wall. Breath heavy. Skin slick with sweat. Glistening and shining in the lights flashing through the window and the slow pulse of light from their electronics. 

It’s hot. It’s fast. It’s careless and dirty and primal as Lance’s nails dig into his thighs— teeth digging into his shoulder— Keith’s head thrown back in a low groan, sounding almost angry, completely lost, fingers digging into Lance’s hair as he holds on—

But— but as much as Lance likes it— as much as he craves their desperate touches, their needy chase, driving, driving,  _ hunting _ down their pleasure—

He stops his thrusts, hands on Keith’s hips to still him. Keith huffs, breath ragged, face confused as he pulls back to look at him. But Lance is wrapping his arms around him, hooking hands beneath his thighs, flipping them over.

The air leaves Keith’s lungs in a rush as his back hits the bed, legs automatically wrapping around Lance’s hips, fingers digging into Lance’s shoulders, head tossed back as Lance begins the slow grind. Steady.  _ Deep _ .

Keith squirms beneath him. Impatient as always. Driven toward the finish line. Hips aching to speed up the pace once more. 

“ _ Shhh _ ,” Lance soothes, reaching out to brush Keith’s hair back from his forehead, leaving a trail of nipped kisses along his jaw, down his neck, to his ear. “Just take it easy,” he whispers, rolling his hips, loving all of Keith’s punched out gasps. “Hold onto this feeling.”

So he takes Keith slowly. Steadily. Doesn’t need a reason other than he wants to. Giving him all of himself. Taking everything Keith has to offer. Pressure and pleasure building— building— building— 

Until they’re both tipping over the edge. Holding tight to one another. Bodies rolling through their high. Collapsing together on soiled bed sheets. Sweat drying on their skin. 

Keith sprawls out on the bed, and Lance curls into his side, nuzzling beneath his chin, peppering his chest with gentle lips. Keith’s fingers run through his hair, lazy and idle. 

Their breaths slow. 

Their high dwindles down. 

They feel the cool air of the night blow in from the open window, listening to the sound of rain pinging off the metal fire escape, watching the colors on the wall shift and change in a never ending kaleidoscope. 

And they just… breathe. 

Hold onto this feeling. 

They don’t have anywhere to go.

Caught up in the afterglow.

* * *

Allura sits at the head of the table, leaning back in her chair, elbows on the arms, fingers steepled. She’s a picture of poise. Dressed in fitted, well cut leather. Long, silver hair braided over one shoulder. Pink tattoos under her eyes glowing with that rad new kind of ink available only in the upper city. A goddamn tiara on her forehead. 

Because she’s the Pink Paladin. The princess. The head honcho and founder of their growing organization. 

She looks elegant and battle ready. A woman after Lance’s own heart. If, you know, his mind, body, heart, and soul hadn’t already been claimed by the tall, dark, and handsome firecracker of a man sitting beside him. 

“With the Garrison’s help,” Allura is saying, glancing over at Shiro and inclining her head just a fraction. One that he returns. “Off the record, of course. And with our prosperous partnership with the Blade, we should be able to clean the Empire out of this city for good by the end of the year.”

“For good is a little optimistic, don’t you think?” Lance leans forward, elbow on the table, chin in his palm. His other hand is firmly seated on Keith’s thigh, idly massaging the soft flesh through tight jeans. “They won’t give up the city easily, and they’re like goddamn cockroaches.”

Allura nods, eyes sharp, lips pursed. “There will always be rats in our sewers, but as long as we clean out the nests, they’ll have no foothold.” She smiles, wicked and beautiful. “We can finally clean up this city. Run things our way. Only clean drugs run through us. No more human trafficking.”

“And the Garrison is going to give us jurisdiction of the lower city, right?” Hunk asks, glancing over to Shiro.

He shrugs a shoulder, offering a small smile. “Unofficially, yes. They’ll stay out of our business, let us run the lower city, as long as we stay out of the upper city. They’ve got a lot of Galra corruption up there. If we can clean out the Empire, then those people no longer have any backing.”

“Figures they’re eager to let us do their dirty work,” Keith grumbles.

“It’s a beneficial business partnership,” Allura says.

“And they’re going to officially supply us with tech, right?” Pidge asks. 

To which Shiro nods. “Adam and Iverson are working on it.”

It’s not long before Allura dismisses them, and they all rise from the table. Lance has Keith’s hand in his, tugging him toward the door when Allura calls out, “Keith, wait! If you could stay a moment. I’d like to speak with you about the Blades.”

Keith glances over to him, thick brows furrowed, lips pursed. There’s an apology in his eyes, and Lance can’t have that. So he leans forward, hand sliding up the back of Keith’s neck, tilting his head as fingers tangle in his hair. 

Keith’s lips are plump and smooth. Marred on one side where a split lip is still healing. So pliant and warm as his mouth opens for Lance, so eager and willing beneath his touch. 

Lance kisses him long and deep. Taking his sweet ass time. Basking in it. Pulling out these soft little sounds from Keith—

Until Allura loudly clears her throat. 

Lance pulls back, grin stretched wide as he chuckles, soft and breathy. “Come find me.” He leans to the side, lips against Keith’s ear as he whispers, “I’ll be waiting.”

He slips away, touch lingering. Smile playful as he turns with a flourish. Striding out of the room without a glance back. He leaves Keith to Allura, knowing he’ll have him back soon enough. 

He stops at the bar to take a shot with Matt. To try Coran’s newest drink. Leaves his jacket strewn out on a couch on their private balcony. He takes a few hits of Pidge’s joint before sweeping downstairs with Hunk and Shay. They spiral down the steps to the main floor where the pulse is strongest, vibrating through their feet. Where the lights are bright and blinding. A kaleidoscope of chaos. 

He loses Hunk and Shay in the writhing crowd. Isn’t too bothered by it. Closes his eyes and moves to the beat. Lets it meld into him, tugging the strings, body lost as his mind drifts. 

Keith finds him there, on the dance floor, waiting to be found.

Slides up behind him. Hands on his hips— around his waist— running down his thighs. Lance backs up into him, leans his head back on Keith’s shoulder, shivers when he feels Keith’s hot breath against his neck. He reaches up, running the fingers of one hand through Keith’s hair, the other lying over Keith’s forearm. 

And there they move. 

He feels Keith against him. Grinds back into him. It’s hot in the club. Air thick and humid with body heat and sweat. He can taste the smoke on his tongue. Feels the distant buzz of it settling in his veins. The fire of alcohol curling low. Lights flash behind his eyelids. Lighting up the world in technicolor. 

And he feels Keith behind him, strong and steady. An anchor. A support. And yet he knows he’s holding Keith up just as much as Keith is holding him. Together they stand taller than ever. Stronger. Better.

There on the dance floor, lost together, Lance loses track of time. 

Until there are announcements coming on over the speakers. Coran’s voice telling them the party is coming to an end. The sun is rising. Voltron is closing. Can’t stay here.

The crowd around them surges. He feels the shift in energy. As the bass grows softer— a mere purr rather than a driving force— the masses stop moving, stop writhing, start petering out and moving in a slow wave toward the exit.

All except for them. Lance doesn’t move. Stays where he is. Just twists around in Keith’s arms until they’re face to face. Rests his forehead against Keith’s. Wraps his arms around Keith’s shoulders. Presses their bodies tight as he continues to sway. 

And Keith moves with him. Arms looped around his waist. Following Lance’s lead. Helplessly caught up in his gravity. 

And softly— oh so softly— Lance hums his own melody. Sings a song from an era long past. Mumbles the words. Sings the notes under his breath. Fills in the space when the speakers finally turn off. 

They keep their heads bowed as the harsh lights of the club turn on, locked away in the dark bubble of space, shadowed by Keith’s bangs and their eyelids. 

Lance keeps singing, gently, filling their little bubble with song. Keeping their night going. Refusing to let tomorrow catch up. 

And Keith sways with him. Holds him tightly. Holds him gently. Presses against him without hurry. Like he has nowhere to go. No where he’d rather be. 

He can hear the staff moving around them. Cleaning up the club. Leaving them be. 

Neither of them move. Neither of them want to leave this moment. Wrapped up in something close. Something intimate. Something warm.

Something like  _ home _ . 

And when the lights go down, their friends will find them here. 

Together.

Radiating a contentment that’s so hard to find in the lower city. In this shitty world. A love and breath of life that can somehow be found between the fights, past the blood, away from the drugs, somewhere in the shift of day and night, beneath the neon lights. 

A taste of something worth living for.

Caught up in the afterglow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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